Following the Phoenix
by hezzel
Summary: A single-/dual-point-of-departure spinoff from Less Wrong's brilliant story "Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality", branching away in Chapter 81. Hermione is sent to Azkaban and Harry has to figure out where to go from there.
1. Chapter 81: Taboo Tradeoffs, Pt 3

**Author's Note:** this is a spinoff fanfiction from Less Wrong's _Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality_ (s/5782108/1). The story spins off midway chapter 81, although the following chapters will still use plot twists from the original, before branching off in a completely different direction after ten chapters or so. (Needless to say, there will be spoilers, so you should really have read the original until at least chapter 96 - then again, if you got here, I can't imagine why you wouldn't already have done that _anyway_.) As an almost-complete first draft is already written, I can pretty much guarantee at least weekly updates until the end of the story.

For completeness, the first part of this chapter is copied from the corresponding chapter in HPMoR. If you don't want to reread it and just skip straight to the new parts, search for "But when" in the text. If you _do_ want to reread it, and want more context of this chapter, reread the start of this story arc at (s/5782108/78), s/5782108/79 and s/5782108/80 .

* * *

**CHAPTER 81: TABOO TRADEOFFS, PT 3**

* * *

In rising half-circles of dark stone, a great sea of upraised hands.

The Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot, in plum-colored robes marked with a silver 'W', stared down in stern rebuke at a young girl trembling in chains. If they had, in any particular ethical system, damned themselves, they clearly thought quite highly of themselves for having done so.

Harry's breath was trembling in his chest. His dark side had come up with a plan - and then rotated itself back out again because speaking too icily would not be to Hermione's advantage; a fact which the only-half-cold Harry had somehow not realized...

"The vote carries, in favor," intoned the secretary, when all the tallying was done, and the upraised hands fell back down. "The Wizengamot recognizes the blood debt owed by Hermione Granger to House Malfoy for the attempted murder of its scion and ending of its line."

Lucius Malfoy was smiling in grim satisfaction. "And now," said the white-maned wizard, "I say that her debt shall be paid -"

Harry clenched his fists beneath the bench and shouted, "By the debt owed from House Malfoy to House Potter!"

"Silence!" snapped the woman in too much pink makeup sitting next to Minister Fudge. "You've disrupted these proceedings quite enough already! Aurors, escort him out!"

"Wait," said Augusta Longbottom from the top tier of seats. "What debt is this?"

Lucius's hands whitened on his cane. "House Malfoy owes no debt to you!"

It wasn't the world's most solid hope, it was based on one newspaper article from a woman who'd been False-Memory-Charmed, but Rita Skeeter had seemed to find it plausible, that Mr. Weasley had allegedly owed James Potter a debt because...

"I'm surprised you've forgotten," Harry said evenly. "Surely it was a cruel and painful period of your life, laboring under the Imperius curse of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, until you were freed of it by the efforts of House Potter. By my mother, Lily Potter, who died for it, and by my father, James Potter, who died for it, and by me, of course."

There was a brief silence within the Most Ancient Hall.

"Why, what an excellent point, Mr. Potter," said the old witch who'd been identified as Madam Bones. "I, too, am quite surprised that Lord Malfoy would forget such a significant event. It must have been such a happy day for him."

"Yes," said Augusta Longbottom. "He must have been so grateful."

Madam Bones nodded. "House Malfoy could not possibly deny that debt - unless, perhaps, Lord Malfoy is to tell us that he has misremembered something? I should take quite a professional interest in that. We are always trying to improve our picture of those dark days."

Lucius Malfoy's hands gripped the silver snake-handle of his cane like he was about to strike with it, unleash whatever power it kept -

Then the Lord Malfoy seemed to relax, and a chill smile came over his face. "Of course," he said easily. "I do confess I had not understood, but the child is quite correct. However, I do not quite think the two debts cancel - House Potter was only trying to save itself, after all -"

"Not so," Dumbledore said from above.

"- and therefore," intoned Lucius Malfoy, "I demand monetary compensation as well, for the redemption of the blood debt owed my son. That, too, is the law."

Harry felt a strange inward flinch. That had also been in the newspaper article, Mr. Weasley had demanded an additional ten thousand Galleons -

"How much?" said the Boy-Who-Lived.

Lucius was still wearing the cold smile. "One hundred thousand Galleons. If you have not that much in your vault, I suppose I must accept a promissory note for the remainder."

A roar of protest went up from Dumbledore's side of the room, even some of the plum-colored robes in the middle looked shocked.

"Shall we put it to vote of the Wizengamot?" said Lucius Malfoy. "I think few of us would like to see the little murderess go free. By a show of hands, that additional compensation of one hundred thousand Galleons would be required to cancel the debt!"

The clerk began tallying, but that vote was also clear.

Harry stood there, breathing deeply.

_You'd better not even have to think about this,_ Harry's inner Gryffindor said threateningly.

_It's a major purchase,_ observed Ravenclaw. _We ought to spend a lot of time thinking about it._

It shouldn't have been hard. It _shouldn't_ have. Two million pounds was only money, and money was only worth what it could buy...

It was strange how much psychological attachment you could have to 'only money', or how painful it could be to imagine losing a bank vault full of gold that you hadn't even imagined existed just one year earlier.

_Kimball Kinnison wouldn't hesitate,_ said Gryffindor. _Seriously. Like, snap decision. What sort of hero are you? I already hate you just for having to think about it for longer than 50 milliseconds._

_This is real life,_ said Ravenclaw. _Losing all your money is a lot more painful for real people in real life than in heroic books._

_What?_ demanded Gryffindor. _Whose side are you on?_

_I wasn't advocating for a particular answer,_ said Ravenclaw, _I was just saying it because it was true._

_Could a hundred thousand Galleons be used to save more than one life if spent some other way?_ said Slytherin. _We have research to do, battles to fight, the difference between being 40,000 Galleons rich and being 60,000 Galleons in debt is not trivial -_

_So we'll just use one of our ways to make money fast and earn it all back,_ said Hufflepuff.

_It's not certain those will work,_ said Slytherin, _and a lot of them require starting cash -_

_Personally,_ said Gryffindor, _I vote that we save Hermione and then gang up and kill our inner Slytherin._

The clerk's voice said that the tally had been recorded and the vote had passed...

Harry's lips opened.

"I accept your offer," said Harry's lips, without any hesitation, without any decision having been made; just as if the internal debate had been pretense and illusion, the true controller of the voice having been no part of it.

Lucius Malfoy's mask of calm shattered, his eyes widened, he stared at Harry in sheer blank astonishment. His mouth had opened slightly, though he wasn't speaking, and if he was making any peculiar noises it couldn't be heard over the roar of simultaneous gasps from the Wizengamot -

A tap of stone silenced the crowd.

"No," said the voice of Dumbledore.

Harry's head jerked around to stare at the ancient wizard.

Dumbledore's lined face was pale, the silver beard was visibly trembling, he looked like he was in the final throes of a terminal illness. "I'm - sorry, Harry - but this choice is not yours - for I am still the guardian of your vault."

"_What?_" said Harry, too shocked to compose his reply.

"I cannot let you go into debt to Lucius Malfoy, Harry! I cannot! You do not know - you do not realize -"

_DIE._

Harry didn't even know which part of himself had spoken, it might have been a unanimous vote, the pure rage and fury pouring through him. For an instant he thought that the sheer force of the anger might take magical wing and fly out to strike the Headmaster, send him tumbling back dead from the podium -

But when that mental voice had spoken, the old wizard was still standing there, gazing at Harry, long dark wand in his right hand, short black rod in his left.

And Harry felt his blood cool rapidly to freezing point. He stared at Dumbledore in unmitigated hatred, then glanced around and saw all the plum-colored robes, the people who would send a young girl to be eaten by Dementors, or at least were too cowardly to speak up in her defense. All his restraint fell away.

There was also the _other_ solution his dark side had devised.

"Then I will cancel the Patronus Charms, and prevent any more Patronuses from being cast. And then _my_ Dementor is going to Kiss everyone here who voted to send a twelve-your-old girl to Azkaban." He was still looking at Dumbledore, but he spoke to the room at large.

Some members of the Wizengamot gasped in surprise, or horror.

Then a greater number started laughing.

And a terrified voice cried out from below. "No! Harry, don't!"

The coldness shattered as his gaze was torn away from Dumbledore and down to Hermione. She was sitting upright in her chair, still bound by the chains, her school robes around her neck soaked through with tears. And she was staring at him in absolute horror.

"You cannot kill them! You're better than that, Harry!"

"Hermione, they voted to _send you to Azkaban_. They _deliberately chose_ to send a _child_ to be _tortured to death_." His voice broke. "I cannot let them."

A deep silence had fallen over the hall, as all the people in their plum-colored robes listened to the exchange. Hermione took a few breaths before she found the strength to speak.

"Yes, you can, Harry. Because you promised that you wouldn't help me if I told you not to."

Tears were streaming down Harry's face.

"They're trying to send you to _Azkaban_, Hermione!"

"I know." She screwed up her eyes, swallowed, and took another deep breath. "But maybe I deserve that."

"No, you don't! Hermione, don't you believe that you deserve any of this, you are innocent! Someone has False-Memory-Charmed you, or maybe cast some dark spell on you. I _know_ you!"

Hermione's eyes widened, and for a moment she looked... not happy, but hopeful. But then her face set in a determined look.

"Even if that is so, you should not harm people for my sake. You should not harm people at all! They are parents, and brothers and sisters, and lovers!"

"They're _evil_, Hermione! Would you really go to Azkaban to save them? Even taking into account that you're completely innocent?"

She looked away from him, to the ground, as though this answer was taking all her strength to give. But she nodded, and almost whispered: "Yes. I would."

Harry didn't know what to say anymore, or what to do. His brain had run into a dead end. He had no solutions, and he couldn't go dark anymore, not now.

It was Dumbledore who broke the deadly silence. The Chief Warlock raised himself up to his full height and spoke in sad, but firm tones.

"And now you have all seen what you have done today. _This_ is the child that you have condemned to be entombed in Azkaban."

"A worthy theater," Lucius Malfoy drawled from the other side of most ancient hall. "Undoubtedly composed to make the girl look better. But I for one am not convinced by some mad threat and overly noble response to it."

"Yes, obviously the boy was bluffing." Dumbledore waved a hand irritably to dismiss the possibility of the alternative as nonsensical. "He is a first-year child, who is just trying to use the mysterious reputation his history has given him to save a friend. He is too young to understand the... delicacies of politics. Of _course_ he wasn't going to do anything."

The old wizard paused briefly, and gestured at where Hermione was sitting.

"But _she_ didn't know that. You have all heard her. She would willingly go to Azkaban to save you, the people who have sentenced her there."

"She was just lying to impress us." The toad-like pink-makeup woman, whose name Harry could no longer remember, was learning forward with a sickening smile. "I agree with Lord Malfoy. It was an admirable show."

"She's still under the effect of Veritaserum, Madam Umbridge," Madam Bones replied hoarsely. "She was given three drops, it takes an hour to fully wear off. She might not be compelled to say more than she wants to anymore, but she cannot yet lie."

Now many people looked sick. _Now_ they were starting to think.

"The blood debt stands," Lucius Malfoy said, his voice no longer sounding amused. "Emotional shows aside, she is still a murderess, and we have already voted on the matter. So let her debt be paid. Take her to Azkaban, where she will never threaten anyone again."

"Very well," Dumbledore said. He was looking Hermione in the eyes as he tapped the rod. "I now, in accordance with the last decision of the survivors of the eighty-eighth Wizengamot, adjourn this session." Then, he bowed his head.

One of the Aurors moved forward and pressed a short rod of dark metal to the metal chair, muttering an inaudible word of dismissal. The chains slithered back as smoothly as they had come forth, but Hermione didn't move. She was trembling. The Auror laid a hand on her shoulder and pulled her onto her feet.

Hermione didn't scream, didn't beg, she didn't have to be dragged out. She just gave Harry one last, tearful look, and then turned and allowed herself to be led away by the Aurors. Harry wanted to say something, wanted to run after her, apologize, hug her, do _something_, but it was all too late, he didn't know what he could do anymore.

And then she was gone.

Around the room, the Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot were rising. Some were looking slightly uncomfortable, others were hurrying out to lunch or happily talking to each other as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. To Harry's right, Professor McGonagall was weeping. Dumbledore descended to the bottom of the dark stone stairs, and stepped up toward the spectator arc. His blue eyes were locked on Harry, as hard as sapphires. But when he reached Professor McGonagall, his expression softened.

"Come, Minerva, let us go home. Today was a very sad day indeed." He took her arm gently in his. "And Mr. Potter, hold my sleeve. We are not done yet."

Harry obeyed, Dumbledore grabbed Fawkes by the tail, and they were gone.


	2. Chapter 82: Taboo Tradeoffs, Final

**Author's Note:** loyal HPMoR readers may recognize some of the lines in this chapter. This is because, despite the rather significant change in chapter 81,parts of the story are still going into roughly the same direction as in the original - both in order to resolve open plot lines, explain the choices in the last chapter, and simply because these conversations made sense here!

* * *

**CHAPTER 82: TABOO TRADEOFFS, FINAL**

* * *

Phoenix travel was a sensation entirely unlike Apparition or portkeys. You caught on fire - you definitely felt yourself catching on fire, even though there was no pain - and instead of burning to ashes, the fire burned all the way through you and you _became_ fire, and then you went out in one place and blazed up in another. It didn't sicken the stomach like portkeys or Apparition, but it was a rather unnerving experience nonetheless.

Harry caught fire and went out and blazed up somewhere else; and just like that, he and the two Professors and the bird were occupying another place. A very well-organized bedroom, with a shelf full of books above it. A painting of a teenage girl was hanging opposite the bed, and a wardrobe stood in a corner. Professor McGonagall stumbled toward the bed, and lay down.

The old wizard squeezed her shoulder comfortingly, and then turned and reached one of his arms around Harry; and the Boy-Who-Lived and his Wizard vanished in another burst of fire.

* * *

When Harry had fully lit up again he was standing in the Headmaster's office, amid the noises of a dozen dozen inexplicable gidgets.

The old wizard sat down heavily inside his chair and fixed his piercing blue eyes on Harry.

"I wonder whether there will come a day when I regret not killing you when you were in my power, Mr. Potter."

That blow hit home very hard. Harry knew that the Headmaster was right. He _had_ given in to the darkness today. Given in so badly that a good person would be justified in killing him to avoid whatever he might come to do next. He had genuinely been about to kill two thirds of the Wizengamot. The idea seemed nothing but horrendous to him now, and yet he had been ready to do it only fifteen minutes ago.

"I hope I managed to convince the others that you were bluffing," Dumbledore continued. "But I have never yet known you to lie. Besides, you must have known that a bluff like that would not have impressed the members of the Wizengamot. Tell me. How would you have achieved it?"

_The Dementors are Death, and the Patronus Charm works by thinking about happy thoughts instead of Death._

If Harry's theory was correct, that one sentence would be all it took to pop the Aurors' Patronus Charms like a soap bubble, and ensure that nobody within reach of his voice could cast another one. And since he had _announced_ that the Dementor would Kiss certain people, either their expectations, or Harry's threat of its destruction, would make the Dementor obey. Those who had sought to compromise with the darkness would be consumed by it.

"I cannot tell you."

The Headmaster nodded, as though he had expected this answer.

"But you would have. As young as you are, as idealistic as you have shown yourself before, you were prepared to destroy the souls of seventy-three people, including two parents of your friends. Are you going to be a Dark Lord, Harry? Without Hermione to stop you from going too far, what will your first real evil be?"

_Without Hermione._ For the first time, the immensity of his loss hit him. It had simply been unthinkable before, a terrible prospect that he must avoid at all costs, but he hadn't actually gone so far as to mentally prepare for the possibility of it actually happening. Now, it was a reality. She would never sit by him, or study with him, or walk next to him, or tell him to be nicer... she would be in a small, dark cell, screaming.

_No, I didn't mean it, please don't die!_

It all came back to him, but it was worse, so much worse, to think of Hermione there. He just couldn't imagine it, it hurt too much to even think of it in abstract terms.

"And why won't she be with me?" he yelled. "Because _you_ wouldn't let me save her!"

"We can talk about that later, Harry." Dumbledore's voice brooked no refusal. "Now, we will speak of your choices."

"I know it was wrong." Harry looked down at the desk. "Hermione made that clear to me. I shouldn't have done it, shouldn't even have considered it for more than a few seconds. I _will_ do better."

"It was your dark side, wasn't it?"

Harry looked up in surprise. The Headmaster had never explicitly referred to it before, even when he had alluded to it.

"Oh yes, I know of your dark side. I have my theories about it, too. But I had been hoping that you could control it."

"I can! But today... I needed to call on it. My dark side came up with the debt plan, too. But then -"

"You lost control." Dumbledore sighed. "I understand. This must have been very trying for you. But if one such failure of self-control creates this kind of response from you, I shudder to think of the faith of the world." He stood up, opened one of his wardrobes, and took out a stone basin. "There is something I want you to see."

The old wizard placed his wand at his temple, closed his eyes for a few moments, and then withdrew it. A thin silvery thread was attached to the wand, and he dropped it in the basin. With a swirling movement, the liquid turned into a small whirlpool inside the basin.

"This memory is from today. I used Legilimency to speak to Hermione Granger at the end of her trial. Put your head into the Pensieve."

Nervously, Harry obeyed, sticking his nose in. Immediately, there was a swirling sensation, and then suddenly he was back into the hated Hall of the Wizengamot. Not from the spectators' seat, but rather looking out from the podium in the highest of the half-circles. He was looking straight at Hermione, who was trying to look strong, but quite failing not to screw up her face into knots of misery.

"I am sorry, Hermione." Dumbledore's internal voice, as he remembered it, sounded strange to Harry.

"Please help Harry." This was Hermione's voice, somehow echoing inside his mind. "If he turns evil, that's worse than anything else."

"He does not listen to me like he does to you."

"Then ask him for me to promise never to give in to his dark side. As a last favor to me, ask him to promise to try never to do what I would tell him not to."

In the distance, Malfoy was talking, but Harry didn't pay attention to it.

"I will do so," answered Dumbledore's internal voice. "Please forgive me for what happens next."

"I am scared..." Hermione's voice trembled, but she didn't continue.

The memory ended with a shock and Harry ripped his head out of the glowing liquid of the Pensieve, gasping as though he'd been deprived of air. He was crying again, he realized.

"I promise," he said, his voice choking as he pushed back the tears that came despite all his best efforts. "I'm _sorry_. I shouldn't have done it and I won't ever be like that again, and I won't give in to my dark side, I'll always consider what Hermione would want me to do." He wiped the sleeve of his robe over his face. "But I'm going to get her out. I will find a way that she wouldn't disapprove of."

Dumbledore looked at him long and hard.

"If you can prove her innocence, she might yet be saved. But you know she was very sensitive when exposed to the Dementor in January." He suddenly looked very old. "There is one good thing about your little scene at the trial: it will not be a happy memory to her. If she dwells on that, at least it may allow her to remember what kind of person she is. Even so, I don't think she will keep her sanity for more than a few days. A few weeks, and she will be beyond recovery."

Harry bit his lip. A few days to get her out. If he could break out _Bellatrix Black_, then surely someone as unthreatening as Hermione Granger shouldn't be a problem. But there was no way he could do it without adult help; he didn't have a portkey, or the sheer magical power to break a hole into the walls of Azkaban or to fool the wards. Maybe Professor Quirrel could help him, but would he be willing? He didn't care much for Hermione, and would not want Harry to risk his future for her. Even if he would help, the Professor had not returned from custody, and every moment Hermione spent in that place that still haunted his nightmares was too much.

Could Dumbledore help him? But he, too, did not exactly have Hermione's best interests at heart, did he?

"Why did you stop me from saving her?"

The Headmaster looked weary.

"Because she is not worth a hundred thousand Galleons, Harry. Few people are."

"You _actually_ put a value on her life. And you put it well below a hundred thousand Galleons." Harry's voice sounded hollow in his ears.

"And what price do you put on her life then? A million Galleons?"

Are you familiar with the economic concept of 'replacement value'?" The words were spilling from Harry's lips almost faster than he could consider them. "Hermione's replacement value is infinite! There's nowhere I can go to buy another one!"

Somewhere inside him, his Slytherin side was glaring contemptuously. _You _do_ realize that you're talking mathematical nonsense here, don't you?_

"Is Minerva's life also of infinite worth?" the old wizard said harshly. "Would you sacrifice Minerva to save Hermione?"

"Yes and yes," Harry snapped. "Professor McGonagall would be happy to make that sacrifice herself."

"Then Minerva's value is not infinite," said the old wizard, "for all that she is loved. There can only be one king upon a chessboard, Harry Potter, only one piece that you will sacrifice any other piece to save. And Hermione Granger is not that piece."

"Life is not a game of chess! This is a _person_ you've sacrificed!"

Professor Dumbledore rested his face in his hands for a moment, but when he looked back at Harry, his gaze was controlled.

"I am well aware of that. But so is every other friend or ally you will have to save. For make no mistake, Harry, this will not be the last time such a choice is required of you."

Hermione, trembling in her chains. Looking at him with that last, tearful look of farewell. And Dumbledore wanted him to go through that again, _choose_ for it to happen when alternatives were available. It was almost unthinkable. Harry screwed up his eyes as his wonderful imagination filled in the dots. This time it had been Hermione. Would Draco be next? Neville? Mother or father?

"People cannot live like that," he whispered.

"Not everyone can," the old wizard said softly. "I have had to learn it the hard way. I would spare you that lesson, Harry. If you were free to live a normal life, I might have let you do it. It would have been a foolish choice, and you would have paid for it for the rest of your life, but if you were free, I might have let you do that for your friend, and you might not have come to regret it. But you are _not_ free. You have a war to fight during your life, and when you are leader of that war, Harry, your allies will expect you to make more sensible decisions."

Tears were prickling behind Harry's eyes again.

"And should I kill for money too? Or kill one innocent to save two others?"

The old wizard did not answer. And Harry remembered.

"That's why you did it, isn't it? That's why you burned Narcissa Malfoy alive in her own bedroom."

Albus Dumbledore's gaze was cold as he answered. "There is no way to answer that question without immeasurable harm, whether yes or no. I will say this, though: the Death Eaters _believe_ I killed her, and they believe that for every innocent on our side they took, an innocent of theirs would die in the same way. That belief is what has kept safe the families of all those who served the Order of the Phoenix."

"And is it true?" Harry said. There was a buzzing sensation filling him, his body growing more distant. "What Draco said, that Narcissa Malfoy never got her hands dirty, that she was only Lucius's wife? She was an enabler, I get that, but I can't back that deserving being _burned alive_."

"Nothing less would have convinced them that I was done with hesitation." The old wizard's voice brooked no question and no refusal. "Always I was too reluctant to do as I must, always it was others who paid the cost of my mercy. So my friend Alastor told me from the beginning, but I did not listen to him. You, I expect, shall prove better at such decisions than I."

Harry was shaking. Inside him, Slytherin was nodding along, but his other parts were recoiling in horror. Partly, he knew that the Headmaster was right. There _were_ limits to the value of a human life. And Harry probably would be better than Dumbledore at this sort of thing. He knew the math, after all.

But it was understood, somehow it was understood, that utilitarian ethicists didn't _actually_ rob banks so they could give the money to the poor. The end result of throwing away all ethical constraint wouldn't actually be sunshine and roses and happiness for all. Somehow Harry had understood that, even before anyone else had warned him. Before he'd read about Vladimir Lenin or the history of the French Revolution, he'd known. It might have been his earliest science fiction books warning him about people with good intentions, or maybe Harry had just seen the logic for himself. Somehow he'd known from the very beginning, that if he stepped outside his ethics whenever there was a reason, the end result wouldn't be good.

_Why am I still here?_ he wondered. Hermione was in Azkaban; imprisoned, tormented, but not yet lost. He had to go and _think_ for an hour or so, and come up with a plan to save her.

Would Dumbledore help him? The old wizard cared for Hermione, obviously. He probably valued her more than the 200 Galleons standard bribe for being caught in Azkaban. But most of all, he cared about Harry's safety. No, he cared for _the hero_'s safety. He would not allow Harry to risk his reputation for her. If he knew what Harry was planning, he could simply stop him from doing so until it was too late to recover Hermione. It might only take a few days, after all, or a few weeks at most, before prolonged Dementor exposure would break her mind beyond repair.

He looked up in the Headmaster's eyes.

"Maybe I will be, maybe I won't. But for now, I am not prepared to walk away and leave my friends to die when they can be saved. And I am not prepared to throw away all my ethics for some _greater good_ either."

It was like the old wizard had been struck, struck by a chisel that shattered him straight down the middle.

"What have I said?" the old wizard whispered. "What have I said to you?"

"Goodbye, Headmaster." And with those words, he marched out the open door, and onto the endlessly turning spiral.


	3. Chapter 83: Following the Phoenix, Pt 1

**CHAPTER 83: FOLLOWING THE PHOENIX, PT 1**

* * *

The three of them were on their 5,609th game of Dragon Poker. (They had taken a break and tried some other games a few weeks back, but they had quickly returned to Dragon Poker, as centuries of Aurors had before them. It was just the only card game interesting enough to play for this long.)

Li's mind was not on the game.

They had all read the Daily Prophet this morning, of course. Bahry had snorted derisively, saying that even the Wizengamot wouldn't do something _that_ stupid. There was an age limit for a reason, and breaking it would sink Britain's international esteem to an all-time low. And that would have _consequences_. The Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot might not care much about the suffering of lower beings than themselves, but they did care about their profit margins being decreased.

And so, they had continued their daily routine. As though by an unspoken agreement, none of them had raised the subject again. But, Li noticed, Gerard McCusker was not playing much better than he was. And while Bahry was cashing in win after win – the old Auror was hard to faze – he still glanced at the clock every once in a while.

Three booms sounded in the room. The signal of an incoming prisoner.

Li exchanged a glance with the others and jabbed his wand at the screens showing the surroundings of the prison, magnifying one of them. There, on the north side, they could see the waters, where a boat with the prisoner and three guarding Aurors was approaching in the distance. It took a while for the boat to come close enough to see properly inside, but then they all saw: the prisoner definitely looked very small.

"They can't be serious," McCusker muttered, as Li felt a lump in his throat. Bahry just swore.

The boat came nearer, and the Aurors in it dragged their prisoner onto the little platform on the island, which lifted up into the air, following its standard path to the roof entrance. Dementors rose up as their new prey was carried over the pit, although they stayed at a distance, of course, as all three Aurors had their Patronuses up.

Three knocks. McCusker opened the door, and the Aurors came in. With them...

Li's heart wrenched in sympathy as he looked at the little girl. Was _this_ the mad first-year child who had come up with a gruesome plan to murder a schoolmate? She looked so... normal. And so scared. She was staring around with big brown eyes, huddling as close to the Patronuses as the ropes binding her would let her.

Auror Gawain Robards, the eldest and therefore de facto leader of the delivering trio, waved his wand and the girl was pushed into a corner. Li silently ordered his badger to stick to that part of the room.

Bahry cast a spell of silence to avoid the prisoner overhearing anything. "Auror Robards, please report." From the break-room, the off-duty Aurors looked in. Bahry irritably waved them over. "We would like to know what in the name of Merlin is going on."

"The Wizengamot have acknowledged the girl's blood debt to the house of Malfoy, and have sentenced her to ten years in Azkaban. We have come to deliver her."

"And did the _Wizengamot_" – Bahry spat the word as though it was a curse – "bother to name a level?"

"They argued to have her judged as an adult, but did not explicitly name a level. Director Bones suggests not to be excessive."

Li glanced at the girl. What would it matter? She would never last ten years; she wouldn't even last ten months. Putting her further from the Dementors would only prolong her suffering

"That's sick," Leela McGonagall, the newest of the off-duty trio, said flatly (she was a distant relation, and everyone called her Leela because it would just feel wrong otherwise). "I don't mind giving criminals what they deserve, but that presumes they're mature enough to know what they're doing. I can't _believe_ the Wizengamot did this."

"You don't know the worst of it," Marc Kleiner, the second of the guarding Aurors, said. "You should have heard her confession. She was horrified by what she did. And you should have heard Albus Dumbledore. And what she said in the end..." He wiped his sleeve over his face. "Obviously she's mad, and too dangerous to be allowed near other children. But I thought they'd lock her up in a closed ward of St. Mungo's or something. She doesn't deserve this."

"It's not our place to judge that," Gawain Robards said sharply. "The Wizengamot have spoken. We leave her in your custody now." With that, he nodded to the guarding Aurors, and stepped up to the door, followed by the third Auror, a pale young man who seemed to want to get away from this place as soon as possible. Marc, with a last pitying look on the young witch, followed them.

"Screw that," Leela said, when they were gone. "I didn't sign up to feed small children to the Dementors."

"You signed up to feed any criminal to the Dementors you're told to," Bahry bit at her. "She's not some innocent little puppet, no matter how cute she looks."

"Even so," Gerard said. "I agree with Leela. I don't mind thieves and murderers being here, that's what it's for. But this... it just feels wrong."

Bahry ran his hand through his white hairs. "Look. I don't like this any better than you do. But you've got to play the hand you're dealt. The girl has been remanded to our custody, and we'll just have to make the best of it." He turned to Li. "Mike, are you willing to take her to her cell, or shall I do it?"

"No," Auror Li sighed. This was the hardest part of their duties, worse than the feeding or vanishing the contents of the toilet buckets, worse even than cleaning out the corpses of prisoners who had served their time. And it was his turn. Gerard had already filled in for him when he had had to stay at home because his youngest had Dragonpox last week. "It's my turn, isn't it?"

Bahry nodded. "Cell block 2 in B spiral is free," he suggested. Li nodded slowly, understanding.

The cells in the highest levels were normally used for short-term prisoners: petty thieves, crooks, sometimes people who couldn't keep up with their debt repayments and needed a sharp reminder of the consequences of laxness. Each block held half a dozen cells, which were simply filled up from left to right, unless a pair of prisoners came in who should be kept separate. Several cells in the other blocks were also free at the moment, so there really was no reason for the girl to get a block of her own.

No reason at all, unless they didn't want the other prisoners to see what they were doing with the girl.

They could add some chocolate to her meals, masking the flavor so she herself wouldn't know (which might be important if she got visitors). Or they could be lax when checking any visitors she got for chocolate supplies. They could even Stun her occasionally. Unconsciousness wouldn't last near Dementors; eventually it would turn into a restless sleep and then you woke up drained and hurt. But for a few hours, it could provide a relief from suffering. And maybe in a while, if Lord Malfoy didn't cave in to international pressure to release her, they could "forget" to feed her, and ease her into a merciful death. It wasn't like she was going to live through her sentence anyway.

He sighed and stepped toward the child.

"Can you walk? Or should I carry you?"

"W-walk," she squeaked. Li sent his Patronus ahead to guide the way, and slowly, reluctantly, she stepped forward. He followed behind, keeping his wand pointed at her.

She stumbled several times, walking awkwardly in the ropes that bound her, and when they were just in the corridor, she fell over. He caught her with a silent _Wingardium Leviosa_.

"Here." With a flick of his wand, the ropes disappeared. This _wasn't_ part of the protocol, but the prisoner was a child, unarmed, and obviously rather tired to boot. Plus, even in the extremely unlikely event that she managed to overpower him somehow, she'd still be in Azkaban, and the Dementors knew her as their prey. She gave him a brief, grateful look.

"Your name is Hermione, isn't it?" he asked. She nodded silently.

"I'm Li."

What was he doing? It was the first rule any Auror new to Azkaban was taught: do not fraternize with the prisoners. If you started thinking of them as _people_, the whole thing became a lot worse.

Well. It was a bit late for that anyway.

They descended the stairs (there were no cells directly by the Auror quarters; it would be too unpleasant to hear the prisoners all the time). Nearby, behind the stone walls, someone was sobbing. It was hard to make out the words here, and Li didn't try; he was all too used to it. But the girl, Hermione, stopped in her tracks, shaking.

Li sighed silently, and gave her a gentle push with his magic. "Come."

She proceeded, then, down into the corridor, where the voice became clearer: "– no, no, no! Please, no!" Hermione looked like she desperately wanted to run away, and Li held his wand firmly in case it would be necessary to stop her. But no, she kept walking. And Li followed.

The sobbing sounds stopped as the child, the Auror, and most importantly the Patronus entered the corridor and slowly moved toward the large metal door, and then past it. And then it started again, but more distantly. It was probably the prisoner in the leftmost cell, Li thought. The crook who had been brought in last week.

The second block of cells would be mercifully empty. They came to the door, and halted. Li unlocked it with a wave of his wand, and led Hermione to the rightmost cell, far enough from the other cell block to not hear screams other than her own. She sat down on the stone bench that was the only piece of furniture in the cell.

And now it was time for Li to go back to the Auror quarters, and leave Hermione to the Dementors.

... He couldn't do it.

Many times before, he had wondered whether he should stop working in Azkaban. He hated this place, and more than anything he hated taking human beings to their cell - criminals, but still - and then watching them dwindle, day by day, ignoring their begging as he fed them and cleaned their cells, until he could finally release the huddling piles of misery they were reduced to at the end of their sentence. If they were even still alive. He didn't know how many made a full recovery afterwards - probably a fair few of the short-term prisoners did - but he could guess the number was low. The recidivism rate was very close to zero, at least.

_Why am I still here?_

He had a family to maintain. His squib wife, Lixue, had little chance of finding work in the wizarding world. Su and Kao were young, and coping with all their childhood diseases was expensive. And next year Su would be old enough to go to school, and need books, uniforms and a wand. Add to that Lixue's parents, who were living in, too old and uncomfortable with British culture to find work, but who helped to raise the children with traditional values... There was no way he could give them all the standard of living they deserved, if he earned only the standard Auror salary.

And did he even want to be an Auror anymore? If he resigned from Azkaban because he didn't want to deal with what happened to the prisoners, did he want to bring people in instead?

Maybe he could find other work... a competent ex-Auror could probably get a position as a guard to a wealthy House. Or perhaps Hogwarts would need a dueling instructor next year. (He was not, of course, mad enough to consider applying as Defense Professor when the position opened up again.) The children were getting older, too; maybe Lixue, who had spent years educating their daughter and son, could find a job in the Muggle world, and leave Kao's further education to her parents... It wouldn't earn Galleons, but it would still put bread on the table.

But Lixue could never find a job as a teacher, even if she was smart and patient and knew all the techniques to get children to pay attention, because she didn't have _qualifications_, Muggles always wanted to see certificates. Without so much as a high school diploma, she could at best work in a shop or something like that, and could he ask that of her? Her parents would never forgive him for taking the selfish choice, putting so much on them and their daughter, and reducing the family to relative poverty. They would need to buy Su's books and robes second-hand, or worse, dishonor themselves by applying for the Hogwarts book fund. And what was to say he could even find other work? Quiting now, without having any other options lined up, would be the height of irresponsibility. And it wouldn't even help this child, Hermione, in the slightest.

He turned away then, locking the grate to the cell, and locking the metal door to the cell block behind him. A deep feeling of sadness in his heart, he quickly fled back to the command room.

* * *

Minerva was lying on her bed, silent tears streaming over her face.

_Hermione._

The clever, eager girl, who had read through all her parents' books (cookbooks and encyclopedias alike) and all the age-appropriate material in the local library before learning that she was a witch.

The enthusiastic young witch she had taken to Diagon Alley, who had asked so many clever questions while her father smiled indulgently and her mother looked vaguely worried, and who had been almost impossible to drag away from the bookshop.

The bright student who had learned all her books by heart before even setting foot into Hogwarts, was top of all her classes, and still studied almost every hour of the day, already trying second- and third-year spells.

The sweet child who spent all the time that she _wasn't_ studying helping others, friends or just fellow students who hadn't even been nice to her, and always explained to the weaker students where they went wrong in so patient and kind a way.

The general of Sunshine Army, who, she was told, _listened_ to the students in her army, and made them realize their own potential. Minerva had not liked it when she heard that Quirinius had appointed the girl – it was nothing like Hermione to fight and strategize against the other students, let alone having to play on a level with Draco Malfoy and allowing herself to get dragged into Albus' plots – but she had been proud when she heard how Hermione was seen, and how her "soldiers" had flourished under her command, taking initiatives and growing in self-respect.

The aspiring heroine, who had rallied her fellow students to take on the bullying problem in Hogwarts, and kept on fighting to help the victims, even when things got out of hand and she found herself the target of insults and abuse, even when it seemed like she and her friends could all come to terrible harm. The brave girl who had stood defiant before Professor Snape (as she had been told afterwards), never crying at her unfair treatment, even when all Professors who should have protected her looked away.

The true hero who had gone through a terrible ordeal, been made to believe horrible things about herself as part of some dark plot, then been forced to live through it all over again in a farce of a trial, who had seen her bright future crushed and then had what little hope she could have had destroyed by the Headmaster as he blocked Harry's clever plan to save her... and who had nevertheless found the strength in herself to speak out against her friend's bluff. The true hero, who had genuinely been prepared to sacrifice herself to save her enemies. And who would by now have been brought to Azkaban, where she would be exposed to the darkest creatures in the world, reliving her worst memories until she went mad and died...

Minerva had canceled all her classes this afternoon, and for the next day too. She had locked the door to her office. She didn't want to see anyone.

What on earth was she going to tell Hermione's parents?

There was a knocking on the door, but she didn't answer. Whether it was student or teacher, she wasn't ready to see them. And she certainly didn't want to see Albus at the moment.

The knocking continued, and a voice outside yelled something. A high voice, as from a young boy. Harry? But he must know she didn't want to be disturbed, that she needed time to mourn. He would be in the same situation.

The knocking carried on insistently, so she finally stood up, went into her office and opened the door. And there was Harry. He did not look like he had been crying, as she had expected. He was wearing that strange cold, alert look she had sometimes seen on him.

"Harry? What is it?"

"I need an adult's help to rescue Hermione, and I don't think the Headmaster is going to do it. Will you?

"Harry... It's too late, she's gone." At Hermione's age, and as sensitive as she was (Albus had told her afterwards about the events of the day the Dementor came to Hogwarts), even _one_ day of Dementor exposure might destroy the person she had been. A week would almost certainly drive her to madness. Ten years... It would be easier for the boy to think of his friend as already being dead.

Harry gave her a pitying look.

"She is _not_ gone. She is merely in Azkaban, and I think I can do something about that." He sat down in the chair opposite her desk. "Will you sit? It is a bit of an explanation."

He seemed so confident. Baffled, she sat down, ignoring the gross breach of etiquette of being told to sit in her own office. Harry leaned his elbows on the desk, and pierced her with a serious look.

"When I was... suspected... of freeing Bellatrix Black from Azkaban, I did some thinking. There was good reason to suspect me, because I could come up with at least two ways to break someone out of Azkaban."

Her mouth opened and closed in shock. _Break someone out of Azkaban?_ For a very brief moment, a faint twinge of hope stirred in her chest. Then common sense and terror kicked in.

"Don't you think about it! The only one who ever managed to break someone out of Azkaban is You-Know-Who, and even he almost failed!" Albus _had_ said that the breakout had been supposed to be undetected, that something must have gone wrong. "The penalty for trying to escape is the _Dementor's Kiss_, both for the prisoner and whoever is helping them. That's... it's too dangerous Harry, for both of you." If there was any fate worse than dying in Azkaban, having your soul destroyed by a Dementor was probably it.

"I didn't mean that," Harry said carefully. "But I have some ideas that might also work to just... protect someone. Keep her from being eaten by the Dementors while we work on a way to prove her innocence, or at least gather a hundred thousand Galleons. I think there should be some decent legal ways of getting her out, but making solid plans in that direction will probably take a few days, especially if the Defense Professor doesn't get released soon. So we have to keep her from going insane, and preferably from suffering too much, during that time and however long it takes to execute the plans."

She found herself staring at the boy. "What did you have in mind?"

"I'm not sure _exactly_, I'll need more information to finalize my ideas. But to get the most obvious possibility out of the way... You sent your Patronus to me all the way in Diagon Alley. What would happen if you just sent it to Hermione?"

She shook her head. "Nothing. The ability of a Patronus to protect the people around it relies on its proximity to the caster. I could probably send my Patronus to defend Gryffindor Tower from here, but if it goes all the way to Azkaban, it can do little more than relay messages."

Harry nodded. "I figured that something like that would be the case, or people would have done it already, but it was worth checking. Otherwise... Professor are you an Occlumens?"

She nodded slowly. Albus had insisted that she learn, after she had told him about the prophecy. It would be bad security if anyone could just pick the details out of her mind. It wasn't her kind of magic, and even after years of training, she would never be a perfect Occlumens, but she could make a respectable block.

"The penalty for breaking _out_ is the Kiss. What about breaking _in_?"

Professor McGonagall considered this. "I am not sure. It... it doesn't usually come up. I think the official punishment is something like a month of jail time, but the Aurors typically let you go." Dumbledore had mentioned this, explaining why it pained him that the new rules would have the Dementors report any Patronus that was kept up for more than two hours. People often broke in, to help imprisoned friends and family.

Harry nodded. "Professor Quirrel said something like that when I talked to him about it too. Would you be willing to take that risk? For Hermione?"

How could he even ask? "If I could, I would swap with Hermione." She sighed. "But how can it help her?"

"I have a number of plans," he responded calmly. "Not all of which I can explain. As for the simplest one, I want her Obliviated, to make her forget the memory of the duel with Draco. If _that_ is her worst memory, her mind will get stuck on a lie. But Professor Dumbledore said that my little... escapade would probably be a bad memory to her. If we can get her to dwell on that instead, it might help her retain some sanity if all other plans fail."

The words hit her like a punch to the face. How could the boy talk about it all so calmly? And yet, what he said did make a horrible kind of sense. She hadn't even thought about it, but of course Hermione, stuck in Azkaban, would, in her mind, repeat the memory of her crime over and over, and over. Removing that memory while leaving her to the Dementors would not fix much. But perhaps it might make things a tiny bit better.

"And your other plans?" Her mouth was dry.

"Depends. For a start, I may want to give her a wand. Do you know what the consequences for that will be?"

A _wand_? "She could never use that, the Dementors drain your magic!"

"Not if she uses it to cast a Patronus Charm."

Her mind tumbled. If _that_ could be done, why hadn't anyone... ah.

"That wouldn't work. She has to sleep, eventually. And after a night near Dementors, no one is able to find a happy enough thought to cast a Patronus. Besides," she added, remembering, "Hermione couldn't cast the spell, and the Dementors give alarm if one is kept up for more than two hours."

Harry just smiled mysteriously.

"Let us assume that that won't be a problem. What will happen to her if she is caught with a wand, but can testify under Veritaserum that she had no intention of escaping? Would she still get the Kiss?"

"Probably not... The only rule prisoners are subject to is not to leave their cell." Minerva hesitated. The guards of Azkaban, as Albus had pointed out to her, were all people who could cast the Patronus Charm. They would not be eager to let a small child be Kissed... Besides, they would want to know who gave her the wand, so at least they'd have to interrogate her, and then it would come out that she hadn't been planning escape. "But they would find out who gave it to her."

"What would happen to those people, if they were found out?"

Minerva frowned, considering. There weren't actually any _laws_ against leaving items in prisoners' cells, just laws against breaking in and trying to help prisoners escape. There was simply no _point_ in giving a prisoner anything other than chocolate. And she was pretty sure the law against breaking in named a maximum penalty. Still, leaving a wand in a prisoner's cell was pushing it a little, so they could conceivably be prosecuted for attempted prison break anyway. But Amelia was sympathetic to Hermione's plight; the woman had made that very clear during the trial, and Minerva had seen the pain in her eyes when the girl was convicted. If the director of magical law enforcement stuck to the letter of the law, and accepted Hermione's testimony under Veritaserum, then such a crime would not carry more than a few months in Azkaban. Bad enough, but survivable at least for her, if not for Harry.

"I don't know," she said eventually. "_Probably_ not the Kiss. But that's a gamble."

Harry nodded grimly. "I don't think there's a high chance of being found out if we do this properly, but we have to be prepared for all eventualities. Are you willing to go there with me? Tonight?"

She gasped in surprise. _Tonight?_ Taking Harry Potter to Azkaban on some plot that she only half-knew, but which sounded several degrees more insane than anything even Albus had ever come up with? Of course, if they wanted to save Hermione they had to act as soon as they could, but was this really even a possibility?

She stared at Harry. He radiated so much confidence... He might be a little foolish sometimes, and a _lot_ foolish at other times, but he had a heart of gold, and she would trust him to the end of the world. He must not be in danger; he was too precious to her, and too important to the rest of the world as well. But maybe, if she went with him, if it all went to hell, she could take the blame, and Harry would come away scot-free.

And if it all went well, if Harry was right, and Hermione _could_ be saved...

"Yes," she answered firmly. She _was_ Head of House Gryffindor, after all.

"Good," said Harry, retrieving a parchment from his pouch. "Then here's a couple of things I'll need to know first..."

* * *

Li was slightly sweaty when he arrived back in the command room, with the comforting presence of two Patronuses. He had run most of the way, but that hadn't been the tiring part.

No, the much harder thing had been traversing this distance without his Patronus. One minute at the highest level of Azkaban shouldn't have drained him so, but he was very aware of the possible consequences of his sudden decision to leave the badger behind, and the Dementors only made that worse.

The others looked up when he came in and sat down, and a surprised look briefly crossed McCusker's face. Bahry just shrugged, and dealt him a new hand.

After nearly five years of serving together, the three of them understood each other perfectly, after all.


	4. Chapter 84: Following the Phoenix, Pt 2

**CHAPTER 84: FOLLOWING THE PHOENIX, PT 2**

* * *

The cell was two by two meters, with a hard stone bench along one side and a bucket in the corner. The metal grate had closed behind the nice Auror man, but the Patronus remained, smiling warmly at her as it floated up and down the little cell.

She was quite sure that this was not how it was supposed to go, but she wasn't about to complain.

It was cold here, despite the Patronus. She huddled up on the bench, wishing that she had a blanket. Wishing that she was anywhere but here, that it all _hadn't happened_, that she could still be good, that she wasn't a crazy cold-blooded murderess who would try to kill a fellow student in a moment of anger...

Why had she done that? Harry had seemed to be convinced that she hadn't, and for an instant during the trial she had wanted desperately to believe it. But he was wrong. She remembered the act with crystal clarity, and what logical alternative explanation could there be? She had been so convinced that Draco was plotting against her, and then, somehow, she had snapped. She would never have thought she held that kind of darkness inside her, but she did know enough about Memory Charms that you couldn't just create several weeks worth of obsession out of thin air. And why had she been so convinced? It had to be insanity because he _hadn't_ been plotting against her, she had had no _reason_ to believe that he had been, and he had testified under Veritaserum that he had really tried to help her -

She felt horribly sick and her breath caught again, but she pushed away the tears. She had cried most of yesterday and this morning, in the detention cell looking out on the Dementor that had guarded her during her trial, and she was simply exhausted. She couldn't bear to cry again. She had been so, so scared, and now the worst had happened, and she was still scared. She should probably sleep, but what if she woke up and the badger wasn't there anymore? The Auror couldn't leave his Patronus with her indefinitely, he would need it to guard _himself_, and he would need to sleep, too.

And when it was gone, she'd be left to the Dementors. She remembered, all too well, how she had felt on the day the Dementor came to Hogwarts. How it took away all the brightness, all the love, showed her her family and friends lying dead, and the terrible sadness of dying alone. Then, she had run. But now there wouldn't be anywhere to run to, nowhere to stop them from taking away all her happy memories of her parents and her friends, and instead making her relive her worst memories over and over again. And she had a pretty good idea which memory that would involve in particular. Draco Malfoy, sending curses flying through the air with violent energy, until he dealt the ending blow with a hex that sent her crashing against the wall and drew blood from her cheek. The feeling of her blood temperature dropping, getting angrier than she'd ever been in her life. And then - then she'd...

Hermione forced herself to push those thoughts aside. These might be her last hours of _not_ having to think about it, why torture herself already? And there was one thing that she needed to do.

From a pocket of her robes, she recovered the little wax-sealed paper, marked _42_. She had carried it around since Harry had given it to her. Once, it had accidentally gone into the laundry with her robes and had come out wrinkled, but otherwise apparently unharmed. The Aurors had not confiscated it, because they had only checked her for magical items.

She had remembered it, of course, when she was sitting in her detention cell, with Professor Flitwick standing guard by her side. But she had known that she should not read it yet; they had used Legilimency on her and might do it again. Harry had made it very clear that this was dangerous knowledge. But now, there would be no reason to read her mind again, would there? And maybe even without a wand, this would help against the Dementors, somehow.

With trembling fingers, she broke the seal, and unfolded the paper. By the silvery light of the Patronus, she read:

_Since ancient times, Death has roamed the earth.  
And it casts its shadows into the world.  
The approach of Death drains your power.  
The fear it exudes drains your happiness.  
The kiss of Death destroys all that you are.  
And it takes away the people we love.  
But never believe that Death cannot be defeated.  
Through science and magic, either or both, Homo sapiens can fight.  
And we can win.  
We are not there yet.  
But either by our hand, or by that of our children, or our children's children.  
We will end this dark stain upon the world.  
Until Death is just a faded memory from dark times past.  
And people won't have to say goodbye anymore. _

She read the paper three times (even though she had memorized the words after the first time). Death. If Death was the answer, what was the question?

_What is a Dementor?_

She knew instantly that Harry was right. It fit so perfectly. The way they looked like a rotten corpse. And how the Dementor had shown her her parents dead, her friends dead -

The badger nuzzled her briefly. Animals did not understand about dying, and so they were not afraid. But _she_ was, she was terrified - both of dying and of losing the people she cared about - and that was why the Dementor had affected her so. Most of the Ravenclaws had also not been able to cast a Patronus. Were they more afraid than others? Or were the other Houses better at persuading themselves not to think about it?

Her brain felt like it was flying, finally connecting the dots. The Patronus Charm didn't run on magic, Mr. Lupin had said. It ran on all those bright warm feelings Dementors took from you. It was like turning away from Death, focusing on all the good things of life instead, and concentrating them into one solid block of life force that Dementors could not touch. But you couldn't do that if you knew you were doing it, you couldn't focus on life while thinking of death, it would be like trying not to think of a pink elephant.

_Then I will cancel the Patronus Charms, and prevent any more Patronuses from being cast. And then my Dementor is going to Kiss everyone here who voted to send a twelve-your-old girl to Azkaban._ That was the other competitor for the worst memory of her life, the things Harry had almost done after she had asked him for help. And now she understood how he would have done it. All that would have to happen was for the Wizengamot and the Aurors to know the secret. Then Harry would have been the only one in the room able to cast a Patronus, and he could simply move it in place to only protect the faction on Dumbledore's side of the room. How could he even have contemplated it? Or had the Kiss been a bluff, and would he have protected the Lords and Ladies after all, once he gained power over them?

She turned back to the note. There was also the second part, and that was probably important. The note didn't just offer the secret of Dementors' nature, but also the clue to fighting them. Was this the happy thought he had used to cast a Patronus? _It wouldn't look like people think Patronuses should_ _look_, that's what Harry had said. _A__nyone who saw it would know there was something strange going on._ How would a Patronus come out, when it was cast not with enjoyment of life, but with defiance of death?

And would she be able to do it? Harry had read a lot of science fiction. But the keyword there was _fiction_. Sometimes he talked of the bright, shining future of humanity, and he really believed that, but it all just seemed like a fantastic dream to her.

But was it? _Could_ it be done? Harry wanted to study magic experimentally, merge the wizarding and Muggle worlds, discover the secret of immortality and colonize the Solar System, that's what he had told her on the very first day they'd met. And he might even be able to pull it off, if he stopped doing stupid stuff like threatening to kill off half the political structure of Magical Britain, and focused on reading more books. His discovery of partial transfiguration proved that scientific knowledge really could improve magic. Little though she had liked to admit it before, if anyone could do the impossible, it was Harry, even if _most_ of what he did was just tricks.

Maybe Harry's bright future was just a fantastic childhood dream. But Martin Luther King had had a dream too, and while it hadn't quite come true yet, the world was well on its way. Maybe it _could_ be done.

It _would_ be rather marvelous if her parents would not wither with age and die at 80, but stay by her side. It would be wonderful if wizards or Muggles or a combination could figure out how to cure Alzheimer's disease - Harry's first idea might not have worked, but there were plenty of things they hadn't yet tried, like bringing together a specialist healer and actual patients to think of one obvious example - and cancer, and aids, and all those other diseases for that matter. If they could do away with the International Statute of Secrecy, and wizards could help Muggles in underdeveloped countries, if they could stop world hunger and inequality, if discrimination for race, gender and sexual orientation in the Muggle world would disappear as it had in the wizarding world. If wizards could drop their biases against Muggleborns - like Harry had apparently already convinced Draco Malfoy to do - and even work together with Muggles and members of other magical races. If she and Harry, and Padma and Hannah and Susan and all the others, and her parents and Professor McGonagall and _everyone_ would live for a thousand years, without wars or Dark Lords, if they could learn to go to other planets and terraform them, if she could have children and grandchildren, and even get to know her own great-great-great-great-grandchildren some day -

It would be rather marvelous indeed.

She looked around at the small cell, with a stone slab for a bed and a bucket for a toilet. It might be the right kind of thought to cast a Patronus Charm, but without a wand, it wouldn't do her much good. She was still in Azkaban, and there she would remain until she died, alone. There was only one thing left to do for her that would help the world, and that was to tear up the paper, and never give anyone cause to use Legilimency on her.

There might be a bright future in store for humanity. But it didn't seem like Hermione Granger would be part of it.

* * *

"I had not expected to see you here, Minerva."

She turned around, feeling rather like a rabbit caught stealing carrots. The mighty old wizard stood behind her, lowering his wand. She had snuck into his Phoenix Price room, but apparently, she had not been careful enough.

"And so I see that you have shifted your loyalties to Harry Potter," he sighed. "I cannot blame you. For what you have seen of me today, it is the right and proper thing to do."

She could not find the words to reassure him, perhaps because his conclusion was not _entirely_ unfounded.

"Tell me, Minerva," he continued after a short pause. "You have known me long, and as well as anyone still alive. Have I lost myself to darkness today?"

"What?" she said in genuine surprise. "Albus, no!" She _had_ resented him, had been angry at him for overriding Harry's clever and generous plan to save Hermione. Like she had resented his decisions so many times before, during the last war. But she had always understood why he acted as he did. She might not like it - and she knew he _hated_ it - but the simple fact was that time and again, the resulting events had proved his wisdom. When Albus had finally stopped following his heart, and had started administrating the war efforts in the ruthless but sensible way advocated by Mad-Eye instead, far fewer people died.

The old wizard's lips pressed together tightly before he spoke. "For the greater good. I have sacrificed so many, for the greater good. Today I condemned Hermione Granger to Azkaban for the greater good. And what is worse, I tried to persuade the hero to do the same. A first-year child, as innocent as I once was in his love and more dangerous even than Voldemort in his anger, and I tried to tell him that he needs to sacrifice friends or even kill innocents for the _greater good_."

The ancient wizard looked so pained, so broken, that she felt all her resentment trickle away. What _had_ been going on between him and Harry?

"Albus, stop being silly," she said firmly. "You are not Grindelwald, and nor is Harry. I know you did what you had to do today." She paused for a moment, considering. "And my first loyalty remains to you. But I am also doing as I must. Hermione might not yet be lost, Albus. Harry thinks we can save her."

"Ah?" The headmaster hesitated. "And I suppose you came here for something of hers?"

She shook her head. "Just a wand for her to use." Harry had asked her whether she could arrange a wand that could not be traced back to them, and she had nodded, and come here. As many people who had died in Albus' wars, there were plenty of wands in this room, not all of them broken, and some of them from before Ollivander's time or from foreign wandmakers. It was much harder to use another wizard's wand, but Harry had said that the wand would only be needed for minor magics, and as long as she took all the wands that _might_ work, they could give Hermione the best match and put back the rest. She had not told Harry about this room, of course. It was too sad, too powerful for a child to be confronted with. She had simply told him that she would be right back.

Albus silently looked at her for a long moment, and she felt a blush creeping up her cheeks. She _was_ uncomfortable stealing from the good man, but it was for an honorable purpose, and she knew that he would never betray her when he discovered the theft. "I am certain that most of the people here would have been happy for their wands to be used in that way."

The old man nodded slowly. "But what good will it do her to have a wand?"

"I don't know," she confessed. Harry had fired off questions at her, making notes and crossing things out on his parchment, but hadn't really taken the time to explain himself. "Harry mentioned that she might learn to cast a Patronus Charm even there, but he did not say how. We talked about a lot of other things she might need a wand for too, but I think he rejected some of them."

"So he does not intend to free her, at least?"

"He would never risk her _soul_!"

The old wizard looked grave. "Did he _say_ he wasn't planning to?"

"Yes. At least, I think he did."

Albus sighed deeply. "Wait here."

The old wizard disappeared between the pedestals. Moments later he was back, carrying a wand she did not recognize.

"Give her this one. I daresay she can use it almost as well as her own."

Minerva blinked in surprise at that. How could the old wizard possibly know that? Even Garrick Ollivander could not choose a replacement wand just by sight.

And then she blinked again, because she realized the implication.

"So you are not stopping me from doing this?"

He smiled feebly. "It might have been a long time ago, Minerva, but I was sorted into Gryffindor too. I know that sometimes you must put aside what is wise, and do what is right."

"Albus... thank you."

The old wizard bowed his head.

"I will do more, if you'll let me. I will come with you to Azkaban, and help with whatever plan Harry has concocted. He has the intellect to match Lord Voldemort's, but he is not yet wise enough to fully understand the consequences of his actions, and I fear for him, and for you, if you go alone."

"You would do that?"

"Oh yes," he sighed. "It is madness, of course. If anything goes wrong, the price will be far too high, and when next Lord Voldemort strikes, we may all be doomed. But that is not _certain_."

Fawkes, who sat on his shoulder, let out a triumphant battle cry. Albus smiled, and stroked the creature.

"I fear I have come too far from what I used to believe. Perhaps there is a better way. This once, I will follow the phoenix again."


	5. Chapter 85: Following the Phoenix, Pt 3

**CHAPTER 85: FOLLOWING THE PHOENIX, PT 3**

* * *

Harry was waiting nervously for Professor McGonagall's return.

The plan he had made _wasn't_ quite as good as Professor Quirrel's plan to break out Bellatrix Black. He should probably have given it a week of thought at least, but Hermione was suffering _now_, and in a week it might already be too late.

Harry had gone dark again to find a solution, and then examined the idea from his light side to be sure he wouldn't be doing anything Hermione disapproved of. He was a bit shaky on the finer points of that, but it would _probably_ be alright.

Breaking into Azkaban should be easy. He would lend his Time-Turner to Professor McGonagall, and she could spend the extra time to set up a portkey. She could Disillusion him and use the invisibility cloak for herself. Even if it would take her a while to break an undetectable hole into the wall - and it probably would, Professor McGonagall simply wasn't as powerful as Professor Quirrel was - the Dementors could not affect McGonagall through the cloak, and he himself could withstand their drain.

Inside, they would use the Compass Charm to find Hermione. Professor McGonagall had suggested this; it was a fourth-year detection spell which could be used to find the rough direction of a stationary target, provided that (a) the target did not mind being found, and (b) they had a precious possession from said target. Harry had guessed Hermione's copy of "Hogwarts, a History" would qualify as precious enough, and Professor McGonagall could break into the Ravenclaw girls' dormitories.

If they were caught by an Auror on patrol, there was nothing implausible about the Deputy Headmistress breaking in to visit the poor student who had been sentenced to Azkaban. Her stated intention would be to deposit a large dose of chocolate, and to remove the girl's worst memory so as to increase the chance of survival for long enough to persuade Lord Malfoy to let her go. If the Aurors saw Harry (which could hopefully be avoided) it was only a _little_ unnatural for Professor McGonagall to have taken the girl's best friend along to say goodbye. So even being caught, their intentions would be judged as rather more innocent than they really were. But this was still the major flaw in the first part of the plan.

_Would you sacrifice Minerva to save Hermione?_

If they were discovered, they could probably bribe the Auror. Harry still had all his money (Dumbledore had seen to that), so he could afford to pay for actions like this. But if, by some amazingly bad luck, they caught an Auror who was _not_ corrupt... Then _Harry_ would still be fine; he was too young to be charged by the normal courts, and besides, Professor McGonagall was sure to take all the blame for the enterprise. But Professor McGonagall would likely be sentenced to a short stay in Azkaban, and even if she recovered from that, she would lose her job, as parents generally did not want criminals teaching their children.

What was worse, even if the bribe was accepted, the Auror would remember seeing Professor McGonagall there. There would be little choice but to abort the plan: if Hermione's situation was discovered later, then Professor McGonagall would not be able to plausibly claim that she was not involved. If it was too late to abort (or the Deputy Headmistress was willing to take that rather exorbitant risk), then Professor McGonagall might end up spending a long time in Azkaban herself.

It wasn't _likely_ that they would be caught. Harry would not be using the True Patronus spell this time, and McGonagall's Patronus wouldn't go out of control. As he had learned (to his great displeasure) last time, Patronuses could find the locations of other Patronuses, so they would be able to verify that the Aurors were out of the way, and replan if necessary. And _most_ of the time, they would be invisible and Patronus-less, which would be enough to keep at least an unsuspecting Auror from discovering them. Ultimately, the risk was really not that large. Still, for a properly pessimistic planning, he had to take it into account.

Would Hermione have told him not to take this risk?

The door opened. Harry turned, and then shot up out of his chair.

"You _told_ him?!"

Professor McGonagall, who had walked into the room after Professor Dumbledore, had the decency to look embarrassed.

"You need not blame her, Harry," said the old wizard gravely. "I caught her in my chambers. It was only natural that she would tell me what she was doing there."

"It's okay, Harry," Professor McGonagall reassured him. "Albus is here to help."

Harry fixed the Headmaster's eyes in his. "Are you really?"

"I am. Minerva, could you leave us alone for a moment?"

She hesitated only briefly, then she was out the door. Professor Dumbledore sank down heavily into her chair.

"What are you planning, Harry?"

"Will you stop me if I tell you?"

"That depends on what you have to tell me, of course." The old wizard sighed. "But I am willing to help you, if you are not planning to throw your life, or other people's, away on a fool's errand."

"I am not going to do anything Hermione would disapprove of," Harry said, after some deliberation. "But _you_ might well disapprove. If this does not go perfectly, the price will be... something worth rather a lot more than a hundred thousand Galleons."

The old wizard's eyes widened in shock. But then he looked resigned.

"Very well. Tell me your plan, Harry, and I will see how I can help you."

* * *

"You're going to have to call back your Patronus," Bahry was pointing out. The guard was changing, and the previously off-duty, now about-to-be-on-duty Aurors had each taken a spiral to handle the feeding and cleaning. "Your wife will wonder, if you do not talk to her tonight. Besides, it's _draining_ you, keeping a Patronus up over this distance for hours. When the others come back, you'll have to take a rest."

Li just shook his head. He _was_ getting a little tired, and he knew that Bahry was right. But he wasn't going to call back his Patronus, not yet. As long as he didn't try to duel, he should be able to keep it up for hours more.

Bahry sighed, and shrugged. "You're going to have to sleep eventually, you know."

* * *

Harry had to admit that it was _convenient_ to have one of the most powerful wizards in the world helping him.

Professor McGonagall had gone to Hogsmeade, to surreptitiously make three portkeys, each of which would be able to transport two people. Harry would have preferred to be able to transport more than that (not that he planned to need any of them, of course, but you could never have enough safeguards), but the Headmaster had pointed out that the expenditure of magic required to make such a portkey might be traceable by the ministry. Professor Dumbledore, meanwhile, was just finishing the enchantments of what _had_ been an ordinary piece of cloth, but which was now a brand new pouch necklace, functioning much like his own mokeskin pouch. Harry had originally planned to give his own pouch to Hermione, and anonymously order an equivalent replacement pouch on the address of friendly but ignorant people (such as his own parents, or Hermione's), but he had to admit that this idea was less likely to be traced. Plus, Professor Dumbledore could add a few _additional_ enchantments.

"I made it flat, so it won't show a bulge beneath her robes even if she's careless, and both the cord and the pouch are imbibed with a Cameleon Charm. I have also made the security on the Retrieval Charm rather greater than the one on your own pouch. There are few Aurors who would be able to even see what's in it, and they would have to know what kind of charm they're looking for."

"Hmmm..." Harry considered. "Can you make it weaker for _some_ items? So they get a few things out and won't think to look for further inventory?"

The corners of Dumbledore's lips twitched slightly upwards. "Clever." He started his enchantments.

"What would you like to put in? Chocolate?"

_That would definitely be a harmless thing for the Aurors to find._ "Yes. Also, we'll probably need some of that anyway... I was going to ask Fred and George, but..."

"There are better ways, yes." The Headmaster cleared his throat. "Tweelkar."

With a pop, an ugly yet somehow still cute-looking creature with large eyes and a tea-towel with the Hogwarts crest draped around its body appeared. "Master?"

"Are you planning any chocolate deserts this week?" the old wizard asked the house elf.

"Certainly!" it squeaked. "Tomorrow there will be large chocolate puddings, and on Friday marzipan cakes with chocolate sauce."

"Do you have the ingredients already?" The house elf nodded happily.

"I am sorry to impose on your planning, but I find myself needing 25 large bars of chocolate, and a few flasks of chocolate milk, before eight tonight. Do you think you can handle that?"

"It will be done, master!"

"Thank you, Tweelkar. You are a great chef, to be so able to accommodate last-minute changes." The house elf bowed proudly, and disappeared with a pop.

"Twenty-five?" Harry repeated with a frown. "Don't you think that's a bit much? I wasn't planning to fill up the whole pouch with chocolate, I will also need to fit in some books to stop her getting bored out of her skull."

"All the chocolate would not even fill a third of the pouch, and would be very useful to someone in Azkaban to have, no matter what you are planning. Besides, you can carry some of that in your own pouch." The old wizard gazed sadly at Harry. "She will probably need several bars already tonight."

"Ah," said Harry guiltily. "I guess you're right."

"What kinds of books are you going to put in? If they are not _too_ thick, you should be able to store fifteen or so."

"I bought a bunch of books at the start of the school year to put in my trunk, and Hermione hasn't seen them all yet. I think the introduction to mathematical analysis book will probably keep her busy for a while. It's university-level, but it is _supposed_ to not require any preliminary knowledge. And the book on timeless physics of course."

After telling Hermione about the professors' response to partial transfiguration, he _had_ encouraged her to also try it; she already knew about the method, and practicing somewhere private would not risk too much of a secrecy breach. Besides, he wasn't even sure why so much secrecy was needed. But she had not been able to fully envision the true universe, and hadn't felt too comfortable trying, since only Harry had been sanctioned by the proper authorities to do so. Harry suspected that his explanation had been lacking; he understood timeless physics on a gut level, enough to take the true universe for granted and not just see it as some weird quantum stuff, but that didn't mean he could pass that intuition on to someone else. So, in the Christmas holidays he had put in a mail order for the one good booklet on timeless physics that might be understandable to a novice. When it had finally arrived, and mum had forwarded it by return owl, there had been all the stuff with S.P.H.E.W. going on, so it hadn't seemed like a good time to press Hermione on the subject. And then she hadn't really been talking to him, and now...

"Would that not identify you?" Professor Dumbledore asked, with a frown of concern.

"Not if there are some other physics books in there," he shrugged. "It would just look like part of a hastily-thrown-together collection of Muggle books. She knows I didn't have the book a while ago, and she doesn't know I was planning to buy it for her. She would _think_ of me, but there would be plausible deniability, which is all I'm really going for here."

The old wizard frowned. "With both that book, and her being told about the spell you invented, I am not certain your deniability is still plausible, Mr. Potter. But I suppose it cannot be helped. Perhaps we can see about faking evidence of your having been Obliviated when we return."

Harry quickly turned this over in his mind. "That's a good idea, I hadn't thought of that one yet. We should definitely do that as a backup option, if it's easy to do without raising additional suspicion. But it probably won't be _necessary_: the spell was just one idea, and we might not be able to go for that one, as I cannot tell either you or Professor McGonagall the details. So if I _do_ teach her the spell, then she will remember it as something that she learned independently."

Professor Dumbledore nodded. "In case you do see a way, though... do you know the method by which a powerful spell is transferred from one living mind to another?"

Harry blinked. "It's only a different version of the Patronus spell, which doesn't really require that much magic."

The ancient wizard shook his head.

"There is much you have yet to learn, Harry. A spell is not powerful because of how much sheer magic it requires, or how different it is from existing spells. The key point is whether the spell requires something special in the mind of the caster." He gently turned over the bracelet he was now holding in his gnarled hands, and whispered some Latin incantations at it. "Tell me, young Ravenclaw, have you come across the Interdict of Merlin, during your reading?"

"Yes. But there wasn't much explanation about it in the library."

The Headmaster nodded. "The creation of new spells is taught at N.E.W.T. level Arithmancy, and given the inherent dangers of experimentation, the books which go into it more deeply are in the Restricted Section. But the basics are simple. There are two kinds of spells, a difference which existed already in Merlin's age. The first kind are spells which are built into the world. When you strike at the right incantation and wand movements, and you have the right idea of what they should do, then they will work for you. If you get close to the right movements and incantation, you may or may not get a weaker form of the effect. But anyone who performs the same actions achieves the same result. And what is more: there are many different ways to do them. For instance, in Germanic countries, _Stupefy_ is called _Paralitis_, and the fingers must be placed differently on the wand."

"Wait,_ what?_"

"Is that so strange? Surely you must have realized that the incantations to all first-year spells are very pronounceable to English speakers, and would probably not be so to, for instance, the Chinese."

Why yes, he _had_ realized. That was exactly why he had hypothesized that the exact incantation and wand movements of a spell didn't matter. Of _course_ the universe didn't have a special case for someone waving a wand and saying _Wingardium Leviosa_. And here, at last, was the answer. It was a _hash function_.

In computing, when you wanted to save a large amount of data, say a number of picture files, you could store them all in the order you got them. But then, if you wanted to test whether a new picture was an unmodified copy of a picture you already had, you would have to compare it to every single picture already in your list. For a computer, this would mean a pixel-by-pixel comparison of the new picture against every single picture on your computer. If you had millions of similar pictures, this would take a very long time.

The idea of hashing was to have a function which calculated a simpler representation based on the input data. So your pictures would all be mapped onto numbers between -32768 and 32767, say, called a hash code. Sometimes several completely different pictures would give the same hash code (because there were a lot more possible pictures than available numbers), but if your hash function was good, then typically when you had two different pictures, you'd get two different hash codes out. Having this, you could store the pictures in directories by their code. _Now_ if you wanted to add a new picture to your collection, you would calculate its hash code first. If there was no directory with that code, then the picture was definitely new. Otherwise, you would have to compare your picture to every file in that directory, but if your hash function was good, that still meant about 65536 times less work than you would otherwise have had to do.

If spell effects were simply fixed in the universe, and you could get the same effect in multiple ways, then it sounded a lot like the actual underlying spell was a hash code, and waving your wand around while saying _Wingardium Leviosa_ was just an action that was _mapped_ onto the actual spell.

He had to tell Hermione, and design new experiments...

Oh. Right.

"Harry? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Harry pushed the thought away for later. "Just had an epiphany. What about the other kind of spell?"

"The other kind are spells which are created by special people, in special states of mind. The core of such spells is an inherent character trait or style of thinking from the caster, coupled with a powerful emotion. The Patronus Charm is one such spell, as are the Unforgivable Curses. When such a spell is first cast, in an extreme state of emotion, with wand movements and incantations which match these feelings, and with an intended goal in mind, it leaves an imprint on the world. Afterwards, that spell becomes easier to cast, and others might learn it too, even if they do not share the same character traits, and even if their emotion at the time is weaker. I think you will agree that it seems that your version of the Patronus Charm is a new spell, and it certainly falls into the latter category."

Harry nodded, trying to parse all the implications of this explanation at once. "And the Interdict of Merlin..."

"The Interdict of Merlin dictates that the imprint is only accessible to the spell's creator, and to those who have learned it from the living mind of someone with access to the imprint. It is _possible_ for someone else to discover a variant of the same spell, but since it relies so much on personality, it is very difficult."

"I see," Harry breathed. "So how do I pass it on?"

"Speak the name of the spell to the people you want to pass it to, and will them to have it. They need never know that you gave it to them."

"What if they are Obliviated afterwards?"

The old wizard nodded. "A good question. The spell will remain with them even through Obliviation, although they may forget the name or the instructions. Without the instructions, they will not be able to cast the spell; without the name, they will not be able to pass it on. Although they can pass it on if they later learn the name even from a book."

"I see. Thank you. That is definitely good to know."

The old wizard smiled. "I know it is much to ask of a Ravenclaw like yourself, but please restrain yourself from experimenting too much with this. It _is_ N.E.W.T. level for a reason. Now go have some dinner, Harry, and select the books you want to give her. I shall finish this detection bracelet. Come to my office, undetected, at five to eight. Everything should be ready, then, to go on this mad endeavor."

"Professor... Why are you doing this?"

The old man looked up slowly and caught his eyes.

"I wish to redeem myself, Harry. To you, and to Hermione. I should not have said those things I said to you, and I am glad you did not listen."

"But... you were _right_. From a utilitarian viewpoint it all makes _sense_."

The Headmaster sighed.

"That it does. But a great many things seem to make sense at the time. Is it better to commit evil in the name of some greater good, that might never come to pass or would not be as good as you think? No, I would not have you follow that path. It was... necessary for me to learn, and I wish it hadn't been. Perhaps you will be more fortunate. Do as you once told me, Harry. Learn goodness from people like Hermione and Minerva. They're better at it."

* * *

The rotating steps gently spiraled down, as Harry donned his invisibility cloak for what could well be the last time. He did not want others to see him, because he would have to act like a version of Harry who had only meant to bluff, during the trial, and who had lost his best friend to Azkaban and couldn't do anything about it. A Harry who had truly _lost_, for the first time, and given up. He wasn't sure exactly how to act like that, but he was quite sure he didn't want to spare the mental capacity needed for such a theater.

In two hours, when the feeding in Azkaban was definitely over, the three of them would go. Harry didn't feel excited about the adventure this time. He wasn't scared, but he still felt slightly uncomfortable about the whole thing.

The weakness, the great weakness, was that they would have to let Hermione stay in Azkaban. It would be so much easier to just take her out. But neither Professor McGonagall nor Professor Dumbledore would be willing to risk the Dementor's Kiss for themselves and Hermione. Besides, if they did free her, what would they do with her afterwards? Her disappearance would be discovered quickly, and would inevitably be linked to Bellatrix Black's escape. No one would ever believe in her innocence again. Not to mention, the magical justice system was terrible enough that people who broke out of Azkaban might receive the Dementor's Kiss even if it was proven that they had not committed the crime for which they were sent there in the first place.

So she had to stay there, without getting slowly destroyed by the Dementors. His first idea had been to try and teach her the Patronus Charm as a primary defense, but after talking to Professor McGonagall, he had had to reject that plan. The one problem that couldn't be overcome was that it was apparently impossible to keep a Patronus up while sleeping. There _were_ ways to keep spells active while asleep - Harry had looked them up before going to Professor McGonagall - but neither pre-charging nor using magical items could be done with the Patronus Charm, as this charm required more than magic to keep going. Nor could they use an item to channel _his_ power into her Patronus, or any of the other ideas he had come up with. There also was no known magical way to forgo sleep for long. And after hours of nightmares, of having her happiness and magic drained away while her mental barriers were inactive, would she still be able to cast the True Patronus Charm again? He wasn't going to gamble on it, and he didn't want to expose Hermione to such nights in the first place. Over time, that would destroy her too. Besides, she might not actually be able to learn the spell, and even if she could do it, and they someone managed to overcome the sleeping problem, it would be a really bad idea for her to cast a Patronus if there were other prisoners nearby who could see the light, or feel its effects.

And so the only other solution even his dark side had been able to come up with, was giving her the cloak. She could wear it while she slept, and either keep herself shielded with a Patronus while she was awake, or, if that was not an option for whatever reason, simply wear it at all times.

Unfortunately, the cloak had the inconvenient side effect of making you invisible.

If at any time an Auror looked into her cell and found it seemingly empty because she was wearing the cloak, there would be hell to pay. Even if Hermione could argue her innocence in the matter - she was not trying to escape, after all - the cloak would be confiscated by the Ministry, and would be lost to Harry. And there would be similar trouble if she was discovered with a wand, or if they saw her Patronus. There was no way they wouldn't give her Veritaserum again and make her spill everything.

That was why Professor Dumbledore was now enchanting a simple bracelet, of a kind which several young witches in the school wore. Unlike the usual, purely decorative kind, this one would detect any living presence in the corridor by her cell, and alert her. If she was asleep, someone approaching would wake her up. Given the length of the corridors, that should give Hermione about a minute to stuff the cloak and everything else she was using at the time into her pouch.

(Harry had guessed that enchantments like this existed, since the torches in Hogwarts brightened when someone approached. Professor McGonagall had confirmed this, but projected that she'd need at least five hours to make them powerful enough to get the range he wanted, and then some further casting time inside Azkaban if it shouldn't catch other prisoners in the same corridor. Harry's alternative idea of using sensors was even less practical. Fortunately, Professor Dumbledore had proved slightly more able to make the enchantment as it was required.)

Then there was the problem of how she would appear to the Aurors. Hermione was not a very good actor, and the Aurors probably knew exactly what all the stages of going mad in their prison looked like. The end result, staring into space with dead eyes and possibly muttering to herself, should not be that hard to fake, but the first few days would be trickier. Professor McGonagall _had_ - after several minutes of thinking - figured out a spell that could be twisted to result in wild, haunted eyes (it was actually a backfire, but Hermione was not magically strong enough to get the _intended_ result of summoning a vision from your subconsciousness yet), but such a trick might not be enough to pass scrutiny. Ideally, Hermione would either have to feign sleep or put the cloak away well before an Auror entered her cell, so she would be in the right "mood". The feeding times were fixed, Professor McGonagall had said, and Hermione had a watch, so it would be possible to get the timing right and not sustain more damage than half an hour of Dementor exposure. Even at her age, half an hour at a large enough distance from the Dementors should be recoverable with enough chocolate.

There was no getting around the fact that it would all be extremely stressful to Hermione, however. She would have to go unprotected whenever an Auror was nearby, and ideally a longer period before that to be in a state that would stave off suspicion. She wouldn't really get any 8-hour nights, since feeding and cleaning happened at every change of the guards, and every time she was woken up it would be in a state of panic. There would be the constant risk of detection, and there might also be the screams and smells of other prisoners nearby, at least when she had just woken up and not yet cast a silencing and smell-canceling barrier. Yes, it was absolutely better than the alternative they'd be saving her from, but it still wasn't anything approaching a long-term solution. But then, long-term wasn't the goal of all this. The whole point was to buy himself time to get her out of there. If he could keep her sane and protected from suffering for one or two weeks, it might be enough. Once the Defense Professor returned, they could deliberate about a good plan to prove Hermione's innocence, or otherwise to get more leverage over Lucius. If this failed, _Draco_ might be open to reason - Harry didn't know what state the Malfoy heir would be in when he got back, but Draco wasn't stupid; he might see the advantage of a substantial amount of money over excessive revenge. If Draco could persuade his father to take, say, ten thousand Galleons to have the life debt resolved and Hermione sent to a Dementor-free prison instead, Dumbledore might accept that bargain.

Professor Dumbledore had questioned him how he expected to protect Hermione during her sleep, and how he thought the enchantments of the pouch and bracelet would stay intact, as the Dementors would drain all magic away over the course of her first week and Hermione did not have the sheer magical power needed to renew them. After a long deliberation, Harry had told him that the invisibility cloak stopped the Dementors' drain. Dumbledore had just given him a look.

"How could you possibly known that, Harry?" the old wizard had said.

"I have read a lot," Harry said, which was honest, although it was not quite a fair answer to the question. "And I understand both Dementors and the cloak better than you do. But I cannot explain it further, it would be _dangerous_ for you to understand too much." _Please don't figure it out, please don't figure it out._

Dumbledore had fixed him with another piercing glare.

"When have you been near a Dementor since January, Harry?"

"What?"

"You don't fool me. You might have read something that gave you the idea that the cloak would protect you from Dementors, but even if you had, you would not be so convinced that it worked as to risk Hermione's life on it. You have been near another Dementor, haven't you?"

Harry had looked down, and not answered. It was the best thing for the old wizard to believe.

The Headmaster had sighed. "I should have known that once you discovered a new power, you would seek to practice with it and discover its limitations. I imagine Professor Quirrel arranged something on one of those Diagon Alley visits. That is how you found out about the cloak, and how you learned to control Dementors and cancel other people's Patronuses, as you threatened to do today."

Harry had still not answered, and Dumbledore had merely sighed, and continued to work on the enchantments of the pouch.

Now, Harry walked invisibly through the corridors, and into the Great Hall. Much to his surprise, Professor Dumbledore was sitting at the Head Table. _A Time-Turner_, he realized. Professor Dumbledore was creating an alibi for the hours spent enchanting the items for Hermione.

(Briefly, Harry wondered what would happen if you were caught committing a crime while Time-Turned. The courts couldn't actually convict you without revealing the secret of Time-Turners to the world. But then, they'd probably just make up some crime and pin it on you.)

Professor McGonagall was nowhere to be seen, but that was as people would expect from her, having lost a student mere hours before. The Great Hall was buzzing with conversation; Hermione's fate seemed to be a large part of it. From what Harry could gather, as he carefully made his way past the tables, the news had come to Hogwarts even without newspapers. Some people were excited, and pleased. In other places, there were downcast looks; even a few of the students in Slytherin seemed sad. But no one was apparently doubting Hermione's guilt anymore.

_Asch' Conformity Experiment_, Harry thought, in bitter mental tones. In this experiment, a test subject was placed between other apparent test subjects, and asked for his opinion on a question that _should_ be obvious (given four lines, which of the last three had the same length as the first). However, the other participants would all give the same wrong answer. In 3 out of 4 cases, the test subject had conformed with the others. And afterwards, many of them had believed that the obviously false answer the others had given was the right one.

If the students had simply been given all the facts and not talked to each other, then many of them would have realized that something about the story felt wrong. At least those of his classmates who knew Hermione well, her friends and the soldiers in her army, and even those Slytherins who joked about her lack of killing instinct; they should have known that Hermione would not do something like deliberately putting a lethal charm on Draco Malfoy and then walking away. (Not to mention, failing to think about the obvious consequence of fellow students being interrogated, especially since Crabbe or Goyle would probably have known about the duel.)

But in a group of people who all acted entirely convinced of her guilt, none of them would feel confident enough to point this out. And afterwards, many would probably believe as the group did. It was really frustrating how people worked, sometimes.

Harry reached the Ravenclaw table, and snatched some chicken bones and potato salad under his cloak when no one was watching. Then he went to the Ravenclaw Tower, to eat in his trunk, select the books for Hermione, and get some rest. It would be a long night.

* * *

Susan came in, glanced around the classroom, and closed the door behind them. That made them complete, the seven of them.

The school had been abounding with rumors all day, and it all got worse as more time passed by. Padma didn't know what to believe anymore, and the others probably felt the same.

At lunch, the rumors said that the Aurors had discovered that the Defense Professor had Polyjuiced as Hermione to fool Draco. Other rumors claimed that Hermione and Draco had had a duel over who got to be with Harry, and that Hermione had won. And the Slytherins were saying that the filthy mudblood had attacked Draco from behind after luring him to a place where he would not soon be found.

Teatime rumor said that Hermione had been found guilty, and been bound by the Unbreakable Vow to be Draco Malfoy's slave. It was whispered that Draco had testified under Veritaserum that he had never plotted against Hermione and in fact had tried to help her. Rumor was that Hermione had been under the Imperius curse. Other rumors said that Hermione had been ordered to receive the Dementor's Kiss.

Professor McGonagall had not returned after lunch. She had canceled all her classes.

Professor McGonagall _never_ canceled her classes.

Harry Potter had not been seen all day.

At dinner, the rumor that Draco had testified that he had never plotted against Hermione had been universally accepted as a fact, and flew around the school in tones of indignation. The rest of the details were hazy. Rumor said that Hermione had been sent to Azkaban. Rumor said that Hermione had been sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss, but Harry Potter had glued it to the ceiling, and refused to let it down until the Wizengamot agreed to release her. Rumor said that Harry Potter had summoned a dark horror to kill all the members of the Wizengamot (except Dumbledore obviously, who _had_ been at dinner, so must have survived) and now he and Hermione were on the run together...

"Does anyone know what is _actually_ going on?" Padma asked in a trembling voice. "What happened to Hermione? I just can't stand all the rumors anymore."

"My mother hasn't owled me back," Daphne said hoarsely. "I told her Hermione was my friend, and asked her to let me know the outcome, but she _didn't_. I think she's feeling guilty."

"She is," Susan confirmed. The young witch sat down in an empty chair, and wiped her sleeve along her eyes. "My auntie let me know everything. They sent her to Azkaban. All but those most firmly in Dumbledore's camp voted to send her there."

"And... And she _went_?" Lavender asked. "But... Didn't Harry do anything?"

"He tried," Susan confirmed. "He threatened Lord Malfoy with the enmity of House Potter, which made about as little impression as you might imagine. Then he called in a life debt, because his family defeated You-Know-Who, which was clever, but Malfoy asked for a hundred thousand galleons extra, and Dumbledore wouldn't let him pay that. And then apparently Harry threatened to take over control of the Dementor they brought there and have everyone Kissed, but Hermione told him not to. And then they took her to Azkaban."

They were all silent for a moment. The exchange between Harry and Hermione sounded too normal to the members of S.P.H.E.W. to question.

"So... They actually found her guilty then?" Parvati trembled. "Hermione _actually_ tried to kill Draco?"

"And Draco _actually_ testified under Veritaserum that he has not been plotting against her, that he was really just helping. Yes."

Daphne shook her head in disbelief. Hannah was crying. Even Tracy seemed unusually subdued; she hadn't even mentioned yet that this meant that Harry was finally all hers. Which was good, as the other six of them would probably have been tempted to commit a murder, too.

"I can't believe it," Parvati wailed. I can't believe Hermione did that. It's so _not her_."

"Should we?" Padma asked carefully. "Believe it, I mean?" She had been thinking about it since yesterday, when Harry had spoken up during lunch. It made sense, in a strange sort of way.

Susan shrugged uncertainly. "What else could have happened?"

"Harry said that they might both have been False-Memory-Charmed."

Tracy snorted. "Even _I_ don't believe that. Everyone always claims they were just Memory-Charmed."

"Just because it's often a convenient excuse doesn't mean it never _actually_ happens," Padma pointed out.

Lavender was sitting up straight, and looking as enthusiastic as the situation allowed (which was to say, not much). "But that makes it a perfect crime! If nobody ever believes that someone could be False-Memory-Charmed, you can get away with doing it to _anyone_!"

That was a surprising amount of sense for Lavender, Padma thought. Susan was frowning.

"It _could_ be true... but then, who would be behind it? Who would have the _motive_?"

"Draco?" Daphne hazarded. "I mean, we all _expected_ a plot after Saturday, and lo and behold, two days later Hermione is in Azkaban, and no one suspects it was him."

"You think Draco cast a blood-cooling charms on _himself_?" Lavender exclaimed, just as Tracy shouted: "That makes sense!"

Padma rolled her eyes. "Draco _wasn't_ plotting. He testified that under Veritaserum."

"You don't know how the Noble Houses work," Daphne bit. "What's one more Memory Charm? His father could have Obliviated Draco of the plot." She paused for a moment. "And everyone knows Professor Snape is owned by Lord Malfoy! He could have performed the Memory Charms, as the wards would allow him to do that."

"The Aurors got Draco's confession before he saw his father," Susan slowly pointed out. "But Snape could have Memory-Charmed both of them before, that is true."

"No!" Padma didn't want to believe it. Draco was her general and her friend, and he _wasn't_ like that. He and Hermione had worked together effectively in their joined armies, and unlikely though it was, she had felt that the three of them might all be friends, someday. That couldn't all have been a lie. "I don't think it was Draco. A plot like that would be _large_, Obliviating it would leave his memory full of holes, the Aurors might _catch_ that. And they'd have had to add memories of him trying to help Granger, why would he believe of himself that he would do that? That's just too big."

"So we're back where we started?" Hannah asked sadly. "Draco is innocent and Hermione tried to murder him?"

"No. There has to be another reason. Daphne, _why_ did you think Draco was going to execute his plot against her? I didn't understand that."

"Because she publicly defeated him. If he didn't hurt her back _hard_, _soon_, his life would be _over_."

"What? Dragon Army _won_ Saturday's battle."

Daphne and Susan exchanged a look.

"What?"

"Padma," Daphne started explaining, "I know your family only immigrated here a few years ago, and you're not that familiar with the political structure. But Draco is the sole heir of the House of Malfoy, which is renowned for its blood purity policies. His blood is pure at least four generations up, with powerful wizards and witches every single step of the way. During the last battle, he dueled one-on-one with a _Muggleborn_. And _lost_. That's just... do you have any idea how damaging that was to Lord Malfoy's reputation, and his policies? How can he claim that marrying Muggleborns weakens the blood when such a prime example of pure-blood failure is dancing before his eyes?"

"I had no idea," Padma breathed. She had to think a few moments for the explanation to fully sink in. "But then, isn't there a really obvious person who could have done this?"

"Who?" asked Parvati.

"Lord Malfoy."

They all considered that for a moment.

"You think Lord Malfoy tried to kill his own son?" Hannah asked, mortified.

"If his son failed him, and didn't have any plot planned to take Hermione down and make up for that, then maybe he didn't want Draco to be his heir anymore." She swallowed. It was a terrible thought. But it might just be true, if all was as they said. "And Professor Snape could have done the honors for that case, too."

"It wouldn't need to be Lord Malfoy," Susan pointed out. "If he loves his son enough _not_ to disown him, one of his allies might have been displeased with the behavior of the next Lord Malfoy."

"But then who could have Memory-Charmed then?" Lavender asked. "It would have to be a teacher."

"I bet it was Dumbledore!" Tracy shouted. "He's bound to want to hurt Malfoy."

They all ignored her.

"Quirrel?" Parvati suggested. "He helped her before, but that might just have been to look more innocent in a real plot."

"It was Quirrel who found him," Susan pointed out.

Parvati nodded excitedly. "Right! So then he probably _wasn't_ trying to kill Draco, but just get Hermione into trouble! He never liked her."

"Wow, wow," Padma interrupted. "That's a whole new theory. And I don't think not liking a student very much is really enough reason to come up with a plot like _that_."

"Maybe he was bored?" Tracy suggested.

"But if the plan _wasn't_ to kill Draco, then at least it would have distracted everyone from whatever political mess Draco created Saturday, wouldn't it?" Parvati piped up.

That _did_ seem plausible. Padma gave her sister a grateful look.

"Okay, so, let's go over the options here, okay?" They all nodded. "It might all have been a plot from Draco to get Hermione into trouble, but that seems unlikely. It could have been Lord Malfoy, figuring out that his heir has adopted opposing policies to his own, and trying to get rid of both his son and the Muggleborn who humiliated his family in one strike. Or a political ally - but obviously not a friend - of Lord Malfoy wanted to get the inconvenient heir out of the way, also along with the inconveniently powerful Muggleborn. Or someone on Malfoy's side was trying to get _Hermione_ into trouble and distract everyone from her power by framing her for the attempted murder, while planning to save Draco in the nick of time. That could have been Professor Snape too, come to think of it." She stopped. "Any other ideas?"

"There are other people who wanted to hurt Hermione," Daphne whispered. She had overheard, in the Slytherin common room, the talk of letters sent to powerful families over the actions of S.P.H.E.W. And it was mostly Hermione the hatred was focused on. "Many of the older Slytherins didn't like the idea of the ghost of Salazar Slytherin choosing a Muggleborn over them. And Draco probably made enemies of his own by taking her side over Flint's, and he _said_ he wasn't plotting. He even said so to Slytherins. It might not have been an ally of Malfoy after all, there are more blood purists than his camp."

"Would it have to be a blood purist?" Parvati questioned. "What if someone was planning all along to hurt the heir of House Malfoy, and Hermione drew attention to herself in the battle and that's why they used her as a convenient pawn? No one's going to investigate further if there's already an obvious culprit."

"Who would profit from that?" Susan asked. "I mean, killing Draco wouldn't stop his father's politics."

"He'd have to make a new heir," Tracy suggested. "And his wife's dead. So maybe a woman who thought she had a good chance to become the next Lady Malfoy?"

"Or revenge," Daphne suggested. "I daresay Lord Malfoy routinely hurts people."

Padma rested her head in her hands, a squirming feeling in her stomach. Of all those ideas, only _one_ meant that Draco hadn't meant to be hurt, and that there would be no reason to try it again.

"Wouldn't the Wizengamot have considered these possibilities?" Lavender asked. "I mean, in a court of law, surely they would have."

"They didn't," Susan sighed. "That might be how the Muggle courts work, but ours are a bit more... _efficient_. Auntie has been trying to improve the workings of general trials, but the Wizengamot is not under her control."

"I think there is one certainty," Padma said. "If they didn't consider this, then Draco won't realize that he might still be in pretty big danger."

"I'll warn him the moment he gets back," Daphne promised. "We're both in the private room section in Slytherin House, so I should be able to get him alone. He might listen to me. And otherwise _you_ will have to talk to him, Padma."

"If Draco gets attacked again, though, wouldn't that prove Hermione's innocence?" Parvati asked.

"That's not enough reason to allow it to happen," Susan growled. "But it would, even if he gets away because he was warned. Send an owl to your mother, Daphne. If Draco gets attacked again, then we will have predicted it. That has got to count for something."

"It won't help," Hannah said quietly. "She's in Azkaban. Even if they wait just a month to attack again... She'll still never be the same again."

"But she'll live," Parvati whispered. "Even if she'll have to be in St. Mungo's for the rest of her life, it's better than staying in Azkaban, isn't it?" There were tears on her face.

"It is," Padma quietly agreed. And there was nothing any of them could add to that. Even if they all believed in Hermione's innocence, now, they had little power to do anything about her fate. Hermione was essentially dead.

The seven remaining members of S.P.H.E.W. left to their respective dormitories in silence.


	6. Chapter 86: Following the Phoenix, Pt 4

**CHAPTER 86: FOLLOWING THE PHOENIX, PT 4**

* * *

Five to nine, in the Headmaster's office.

She was scared. Not in ten years had she done something like this. No, _never_ had she done something like this; she had gone into dangerous situations, in the past, and even faced Lord Voldemort himself, but she had not faced Dementors, never really broken the law. In this school, she represented discipline. But then, if you could not break the rules even when they were wrong, you could not truly be a Gryffindor.

The Headmaster was feeding the chocolate bars into the newly made pouch. Harry had asked him to keep two apart. Now, the boy with the green eyes and the scar on his forehead turned to her, holding out something made of a strange shimmering, black material.

"I want you to wear this cloak. It will keep you safe while we are in Azkaban. That way, we won't need a Patronus. Smaller chance of being discovered."

She carefully took the cloak from his hands. "Invisibility cloaks don't do..." And then she felt the material on her skin. Her magic tingled, it felt so beautiful and right... "Where did you _get_ this?"

"It's a family heirloom, but that's not the point. Please do not speak of this to others."

She nodded, even as, in her head, some cogwheels clicked and she _finally_ understood how James Potter had done some of his stunts.

The boy turned to the old wizard, now.

"Can you withstand the Dementors' drain for as long as it will take us to find Hermione?"

"Can you?" she blurted out. "In January, you were... you got..."

"That was January," said Harry. "This is April." He smiled, then. "I have learned a lot, on that day and afterwards."

"I can, too," Albus confirmed. He took the bar of chocolate Harry offered him (even he could probably use the help while unprotected in Azkaban). Then, with a crack from Albus' wand, the boy disappeared. The old wizard turned to his phoenix.

"Are you prepared to go back into Azkaban, Fawkes?"

The phoenix let out a great, challenging cry. Dumbledore nodded, and the bird also turned invisible. "And I suppose a silencing spell might be needed too."

She pulled the cloak over her body, and stepped to Albus' side. A small hand was thrust in her left hand. Her right hand grabbed Albus'. And then the old wizard, too, turned invisible and they all disappeared.

* * *

Azkaban.

She felt it the moment they arrived. The Dementors... distant, but there. Hollow points of emptiness. Yet their drain did not touch her. What _was_ this cloak, how could it stop the most unstoppable magical creature on earth?

They were in a long corridor, in front of a large metal door. Albus had suggested that the Aurors would probably have put the child in their custody at a high level, rather than six levels down as was normally the suggested penalty for attempted murder. Beside her, she heard Albus quietly whispering some incantations.

She looked at the large metal door uncomfortably. Behind that door, prisoners were suffering. Her heart went out to them, and then to Harry, who was too young to have to see this kind of place. There was no sound to be heard other than the old wizard's muttering, however, or she would have put up a quieting barrier to protect the boy. She suspected that Albus had done so the instant they arrived.

"I found her," the old wizards' voice spoke in a whisper. "She's one level up from here. We'll have to tunnel through a floor."

None of them spoke further, as they waited. It was like the corridor was entirely empty, save for the flickering gas lamps, which only gave this place an eerie atmosphere. And then at last, golden lines appeared on the ceiling, and a new trapdoor opened.

A small hand grabbed hers, and she felt a weightless sensation as she was lifted into the air. Fawkes, again. They arrived in the higher corridor, gently touched down on the ground, and the hole in the floor disappeared again.

"This way." A golden light very briefly lit up and moved to the right. She followed it, and saw the metal door ahead open.

She braced herself for the sight of Hermione and maybe others that would meet her there, and went through the door. It closed and locked behind her. And then she looked around, and blinked, for a silvery light illuminated the block of cells.

There, in the very last cell of this block, lay Hermione on a stone bench. She was sleeping, curled up into a tight ball. And there was a fox Patronus standing guard inside her cell.

* * *

_(Earlier)_

Leela peeked into the breakroom. "Mike?"

"Yes?" Auror Li put down that morning's edition of The Quibbler, whose headlines were of course filled with the case of Granger versus Malfoy (apparently Malfoy had been possessed by the spirit of Baba Yaga, and Granger's spell had cast it out into Mrs. Norris, the caretaker's cat), but which also contained some lighter material on a mixed magpie-dragon breed being spotted in France.

"Call back your Patronus. I will take care of the girl."

Li blinked. "You will?"

Leela smiled, and her fox vanished. "You're not the only one who feels that this situation is screwed up, you know. Tom is fully on our side. And I bet that from the morning crew, Godric will help too."

From the corner of the room, Bahry snorted. (He was talking to his wife by Patronus, but that wouldn't catch speech directed at others.) "Big mistake, Malfoy made there. I guess it never crossed anyone's mind that Azkaban is guarded solely by people who can cast a Patronus."

* * *

"There are no Aurors nearby," came Albus' voice. He was still invisible; there was no reason for him to show himself. "One of them is keeping her shielded from a distance. In fact, it looks like they deliberately put her away from other prisoners, where they could do so. Harry, we may not need to interfere here. If the Aurors are protecting her, she should be safe until such time as we can get her out. You don't need to sacrifice your cloak."

"No." Harry's voice. "It is too great an assumption that they'll _always_ keep her shielded. We only know that someone is doing it _now_. I'm not going to risk Hermione's life on that chance, you don't even need to be properly pessimistic to see that it would be stupid. Plus, if they actually do keep her protected at all times, she won't need to _use_ the cloak, so she can keep it in the secret part of the pouch and has little chance of discovery."

Minerva blinked as she understood. Of course, _that_ was the plan. The cloak, which somehow managed to shield her from the Dementors' fear, would do the same for Hermione. It was simple and elegant, and she wondered why Harry had been reluctant to explain this part.

But it didn't matter. There was a child, and it needed her comforting. She waved her wand and the cell door clicked open (it was only a non-magical lock, as Dementors would drain magic over time, so that was easy), stepped inside, and took off her cloak.

* * *

When Hermione Granger woke up, she instantly remembered where she was. The silvery Patronus light fell on her closed eyelids, and a knot of misery tightened in her stomach. It had not all been a nightmare. She was still in Azkaban, she was still a convicted attempted-murderess.

And then she realized what had awoken her: a soft hand on her shoulder.

Hermione's eyes flung open, and looked into the gentle face of Professor McGonagall.

"P-Professor?" She sat up, too confused to know what more to say. And then there was a trickling sound to the left, and she looked and saw Harry. "Harry?!"

The Boy-Who-Lived grinned cheekily, and held up two fingers. "I didn't do anything you would disapprove of. Promise."

"W-what are you doing here?" she stammered.

"We're here for you," Professor McGonagall said kindly. "I am sorry, we cannot take you out of here. But we can at least make all this less hard on you until we can prove your innocence and get you out through the legal system."

Something in her stomach unknotted, as she looked from Professor McGonagall to Harry, who nodded in agreement.

"You really think I'm innocent?"

"Of course you are, Miss Granger. I know you, you would not do such a thing. The Headmaster believes as I do, too, even if he could not say so before the Wizengamot without making your situation worse. Whether it was a Memory Charm or even darker magic, I am quite certain that your own will had no part in this."

Hermione just stared at the wall. She wanted desperately to believe it, that the darkest thing she had ever done had not really been her. It would be her greatest wish, more than being free and going back to her parents, she would be okay staying in Azkaban and being eaten by Dementors if it meant she _hadn't_ really done that, that she could still be good... But could that really be true?

"Surely _you_ don't believe it?" said Professor McGonagall. "Miss Granger, surely you have never thought yourself to be capable of murder?"

"But I -" Her excellent memory helpfully replayed it for the thousandth time, no matter how little she wanted to think about it.

""But you remember doing it all the same," said the older witch with a note of understanding. "Miss Granger, this is one of the things I came here to do. You have gone through a terrible ordeal, you deserve reprieve and kindness and rest, and instead you were sent here. But there really is no reason that you should bear such dreadful memories. I would be happy to remove them from you."

A strange feeling of hope stirred in her chest. "What?"

"Your memories of the duel might well be complete fabrications. There is no need to remember much more than simply the _story_ of what supposedly happened." Professor McGonagall turned her head to the side, towards the grate. "Although I believe the Headmaster would like to make sure nothing important is lost first."

_The Headmaster?_ And then there was another trickling sound, and there, behind Harry, stood Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and many things besides, the phoenix flaming brightly on his shoulder. The most powerful wizard in the world was standing in her cell. She felt very small all of a sudden. It was one thing for Harry and Professor McGonagall to break into Azkaban for her, but...

The great hero who had defeated Grindelwald stepped forward, in the small space of the cell.

"Miss Granger, you will not remember any of this, but most importantly you will not remember my presence here. Harry and Minerva can afford to be found here, but I cannot. I am sorry."

"It's okay," she found herself stammering, even though her mind had not processed much beyond "will not remember any of this".

"You have shown extraordinary braveness today. And now I must ask you to be brave once more. Will you share your memories with me?"

"How?"

From the folds of his robes, Professor Dumbledore recovered a stone basin (which really was far too large to have fit there, but she was used to her Mokeskin Pouch by now so it did not surprise her that much). "I will cast the necessary spells, and then you must go through all your relevant memories, in as much detail as you can remember. That is, the duel and everything that follows until you were arrested, and also the relevant things that happened before: your fight with Draco, getting the note, anything you can think of that might matter. Will you do that for me?"

What was one more time, when she gone through it over and over? It would mean he would have her memories. Would he think badly of her, when he saw them? But Professor McGonagall _had_ said that the Headmaster believed she was innocent...

She nodded, and the old wizard started speaking incantations.

It took a long time, and it was very painful. The spells immersed her in the memories again, played them out visually. She had to force herself to continue several times. And then, when the last of the memories finally disappeared into the Pensieve, she looked up, at the lined face of the Headmaster, at Professor McGonagall who was close to tears, and at Harry, who had a thoughtful look on his face.

"What are you thinking, Harry?" She asked tiredly. "You don't hate me now, do you?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "Of course not, don't be stupid. But I think I can prove your innocence with this. You bled, at the end of the duel. I saw you put that memory in."

"Yes, I cut open my cheek on that final blast."

"But you can't cast _Episkey_, can you? I don't think uncontrolled wandless magic would let you do things you cannot do with a wand. And I didn't see you talking to anyone else. Yet you had no scar or cut or anything in the morning."

That... _did_ seem strange, now she came to think of it. A part of the miserable weight in her stomach lifted, and the cell seemed just a little bit brighter.

Professor McGonagall was practically bouncing. "But this is evidence! We can prove to the Wizengamot that she is innocent!" Professor Dumbledore, however, just shook his head.

"The trial has been and gone. We would need strong additional evidence to get the case re-examined, and as this is a blood debt, Lucius himself would have to agree to a re-trial. A single cut... it _can_ be explained in other ways, even if those are unlikely. It will not persuade him, even if we could bring up the subject to him without confessing to the crime of breaking into Azkaban."

"But Draco might have the same memory," Harry piped up.

"It will not be enough for Lord Malfoy, for Draco has not seen the rest."

"It's enough for me," Hermione whispered. The realization was starting to filter through her mind now. She really was innocent... Her head swam.

The Headmaster smiled. "Did you still doubt? Well, it doesn't matter now. I have some other questions still. The Pensieve catches your thoughts, but doesn't show them to others... So tell me, when _did_ you start thinking Draco Malfoy and Professor Snape were plotting against you?"

"I... I don't _know_, why I thought that."

"That's probably because the reason why you thought that was removed from your memory," Harry put in. "But let's pin it down. Were you thinking it the day after Snape... disbanded SPHEW, when you asked me to borrow my cloak?"

"No," she whispered. She had been planning to go into the Slytherin Dungeons, if she had been worried about Malfoy and Snape then it would have been at the forefront of her mind.

"And the day afterwards, when you sat away from me at breakfast?"

She nodded slowly. She wasn't sure anymore why she had wanted to avoid Harry... She'd been afraid to tell him... what?

"How long were you in the Slytherin Dungeons?"

"It couldn't have been more than about an hour or so... Probably much less."

"Then why did you miss the Sunshine Planning Meeting? Susan said no one understood where you'd been."

She'd been... tired, when she got back. And confused, and worried, and desperately afraid of Snape and Draco. And it was later than she thought it would be.

"I see," Harry nodded. "Something happened either in the dungeons, or on the way back. We may have to talk to Daphne for more information."

"Could you give me that memory, too?" Professor Dumbledore asked gently. She nodded, and he started the incantations again.

When it was all over, Professor McGonagall was looking sharp. Harry and Professor Dumbledore, too, looked like they had seen something in the memory that she had not. "What is it?"

"I can at least see how Daphne got her warnings, Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall said with a frown. "I shall be having words with Miss Margaret Bullstrode."

"What I find interesting," Harry broke in before she could ask more, "is that at least two hours must have passed between you borrowing my cloak and your arrival back in the Ravenclaw Common Room, seeing as the sun had gone down already by then. Yet the Memory itself couldn't be much more than half an hour. An hour, tops. Something happened there that you were made to forget about."

Dumbledore nodded sadly. "I agree. That much seems obvious."

She slumped on the stone bench. "I don't like this. I could _always_ rely on my memory."

Harry looked slightly guilty. "At least knowing where the holes are, and what they are caused by, should help, shouldn't it?"

Hermione nodded, and smiled weakly. "I guess it does." And it proved that someone, apparently, had manipulated her. That she was innocent. And that was worth more than anything, even more than a consistent memory.

And then her thoughts _slipped_ in a brief moment of disorientation, like she'd just lost her track of thought. She looked back at Professor McGonagall, who had just offered to remove her memories of what she'd done (_supposedly_ done, the Deputy Headmistress _had_ said that she was probably innocent), that was probably why she was feeling so relieved now...

"You can _remove_ the memory?"

The older witch shook her head, as if to clear her mind from something. But then the woman took out her wand, and pointed it at her.

"Yes, I can. I cannot offer to remove everything; your current situation would not make sense to you if I removed the trial, for instance. But at the very least you do not need to remember the duel, and this _fabrication_ of what you supposedly did."

Hermione stared at the wand.

_No more guilt__._

Perhaps Professor McGonagall and Harry were right, and it hadn't all happened, maybe she really was innocent. If Professor McGonagall removed her memories of the duel, then she would have no trouble at all believing whatever they put in place instead. She would have nothing to blame herself for anymore.

But even as she started to say yes, a feeling of reluctance rose inside her.

She hadn't said anything.

She'd woken up and remembered what had happened the night before, and it had been like - like - she couldn't find words even in her own thoughts for what it had been like. But she'd known that Draco Malfoy was already dead, and she hadn't said anything, hadn't gone to Professor Flitwick and confessed. She'd just dressed herself and gone down to breakfast and _tried to act normal_ so that nobody would ever know, and she'd known it was wrong and Wrong and horribly horribly WRONG but she'd been so, so scared -

Even if they were right, even if the duel with Draco Malfoy was a lie, she'd made that choice all by herself. She didn't deserve to forget that, or be forgiven for it. For that decision alone, she deserved everything she had got. And if she forgot the duel, she would never understand the relevance of that decision.

"I don't deserve to forget," she said in a wavering voice. "I'm a horrible person, I'm not heroic at all -"

Professor McGonagall's voice was very sharp, like Hermione had just made some dreadful mistake on her Transfiguration homework. "Stop being foolish, Miss Granger! Horrible is whoever did this to you. And as for being heroic -"

"No," Harry interrupted. "Let her explain. This may be important." He turned to her. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I... I _didn't_ confess." She felt tears coming up behind her eyes again, and pushed them away. "I should have, maybe _something_ could still be saved, it was _wrong_ to try to hide what I did, but I was just so, so scared."

"Of course you were," Professor McGonagall sighed. "Almost anyone in your place would have acted the same."

"Why?" said Hermione's voice, it seemed to be running on without her mind, now. "Why couldn't I be braver? I was going to run in front of the Dementor - for Harry - before, I mean, in January - so why - why - why couldn't I -" Why had the thought of being sent to Azkaban just completely _unglued_ her, why had she forgotten everything about being Good -

"And then you stopped me from protecting you in the Wizengamot," Harry pointed out when she had trailed off. "You might have been too scared of the Dementors at first, but in the end, you did something much greater than confessing. You averted disaster today, Hermione."

She almost smiled. Almost. "Anyone would have done that."

"No," Harry said seriously. "They really wouldn't have. Didn't you see how surprised all those purple robes were at your response? You really are a hero, Hermione."

She looked at the ground. "Being a hero is nothing like what I thought it'd be. But that's what you were all trying to tell me before, isn't it?"

Professor McGonagall just hugged her, then, and held tight for many long seconds. It was very comforting. When she let go, Hermione had made up her mind.

"Still, I... I don't think it's right to just _forget_."

"Then you won't have to," Harry decided. "Professor, would it be possible to simply modify the memory? In a blatant way, to make it clear that it is false? Like, we could add subtitles, saying 'don't believe this, it was implanted' or something?"

"That... would require a fair bit of skill to do well." Professor McGonagall hesitated. "But I am sure it can be arranged."

"But..." Hermione started protesting. Harry turned to her.

"This isn't just to make your life easier. I have a few plans to help you, but if they all fail, then you might end up under the Dementors' power, maybe briefly, maybe longer. The last thing you need is to dwell on an implanted memory that would give you completely the wrong idea of what kind of person you are."

He had a point. "Okay."

"So, I think we've got everything covered." Harry decided. Strange, how _he_ was obviously in charge, and not Professor McGonagall. "And now I would like to talk to Hermione, alone. It should be safe to use your Patronus - you may see some strange things from over there, but as long as you don't hear anything it will be fine, I think."

Professor McGonagall nodded. "What do you want me to do if anyone is coming?"

"The moment an Auror even stirs out of their Headquarters, just drop your Patronus, come back here instantly and Obliviate the whole thing."

"_Expecto Patronum!_" A silvery cat appeared next to the fox, and preceded Professor McGonagall out of the cell. Hermione blinked, confused, but Harry did not seem about to explain. He just took out his wand, and cast some silencing barriers. "I think it's time I told you about Dementors."

"I read your note," she volunteered. "I think I understand."

"Oh, you did?" He looked relieved. "That's great, that'll make the Memory Charms a lot easier."

"Memory Charms?" she repeated, as he grabbed around his neck, and suddenly held a cord that hadn't seemed to be there a moment before.

Harry had the decency to look guilty. "Yes. I don't _like_ messing with your memory, but it would be too dangerous if you remembered me being here, they might give you Veritaserum again. But let's not talk about that for the moment, we can discuss it later." He pulled a thin pouch from his neck, and then summoned a wand out of it. "Cast the Patronus Charm. I want to know whether it works for you."

She took the wand, with a trembling hand. A slight, warm tingle surged through her fingers when she touched it, as had happened when she had first touched her own wand, even though this was a different one. And then she closed her eyes, cleared her mind, and tried to call back all those emotions she'd felt before. She thought of the future Harry had painted, and the ideas she had imagined before. Finding a way around aging and disease. Curing all the world's problems. And here was Harry, doing the impossible by breaking into Azkaban for her. Maybe she _could_ be part of this bright future. Maybe she could help to make it happen.

_"Expecto Patronum!"_

And out of her wand burst an enormous silvery humanoid, its light like a sun, far outshining the fox's brightness. She almost dropped her wand in shock, and the figure dimmed a little.

"Steady!" Harry warned. "Hold on to that thought."

She held onto it then. It was easier to imagine the world turning out okay, as she looked into the sun-like brightness of the figure. It was neither a man nor a woman, but it looked human, and it seemed to smile at her.

"I did it." She looked up into Harry's eyes, which were twinkling with delight, too.

"I always knew you had it in you to destroy Dementors, Hermione. But now cancel it. We have a few more things to do."

He started taking out book after book from the pouch, and putting them on the stone bench.

"I still don't understand," Hermione started to protest.

"I don't know how long it'll take me to legally get you out of there. If it takes too long I could break you out illegally and we can hide you in America or something, but then you would be a fugitive for the rest of your life, so I'd rather not do that. So for now, you'll have to stay put. With the wand, you can shield yourself from the Dementors. The books will give you something to do."

That sounded reasonable. "What if the Aurors stop sending their Patronuses here? This is the second, the first Auror left his badger with me, but I don't know whether they're going to do that tomorrow, or next week. How will I sleep?"

Harry grinned cheekily. "You know the three Deathly Hallows, and you have guessed that I have one. Tell me, what is it rumored to do?"

"It hides the wearer, even from Death's ga... oh."

"Exactly. You'll understand the full plan later. Now, take this, and feed the chocolate into it." He handed the pouch to her, and pointed to the large pile of chocolate, which was the last thing he'd taken out. "And then the books and the wand, but say 'Rowena' before each of them. Oh, and don't forget the cloak." As he bent down and picked up the shimmering black cloak from the ground, she realized it must have been there all along, even though she hadn't seen it.

"Why? And why aren't you telling me the full plan now?" But she obeyed anyway, and started feeding the chocolate and the books into the pouch.

"Because it'll take time, and the longer we linger, the larger the chance we get discovered. And honestly, I'd rather not have to explain your having a _wand_." He canceled the silencing barrier and said, in a raised voice, "you may come back now."

"Professor McGonagall returned, with a worried frown. "It is almost midnight. We should go soon, because the next change of the guard starts in a bit over an hour, complete with a feeding round."

"Yes," Harry agreed. "Hermione, I am really sorry, but you'll have to forget all this."

Forget _all_ of it? Forget that she was innocent, that Harry and Professor McGonagall had come for her, forget that there was still hope? It was like slap to her face.

"I don't want to," she whispered.

"If they catch you with the cloak, they will give you Veritaserum again, or they'll use Legilimency on you. It would be too dangerous if you knew for sure that I was involved. I'm _sorry_, I hate doing this to you. But instead, you will remember dreaming of some trustworthy figure telling you everything important. That's why we had to talk to you first, to know what we needed to tell you in the Memory Charm. Is that okay with you?"

It wasn't okay, not at all, but it did make sense, and she couldn't ask Harry to risk himself just so that she would remember. She nodded silently.

Professor McGonagall gave her a long, warm hug. Then Harry did the same. And then Professor McGonagall took her wand out.

"Please lie down on the bench." She did so, looking at her two kind helpers while she still could. The last thing she heard was _"Somnium"_.

* * *

When Hermione Granger woke up, she instantly remembered where she was. The silvery Patronus light fell on her closed eyelids, and a knot of misery tightened in her stomach. It had not all been a nightmare. She was still in Azkaban, she was still a convicted attempted-murderess.

But she also remembered the dream.

_"Hello Hermione," the shining silver otter had said. It was clearly a Patronus, and it spoke in her mother's voice, but how could that be? Her mother was not a witch..._

_"I am not really here," the otter had continued. "You might think of me as a dream, or rather, a fake Memory Charm. I am not the first false memory you have been given, although I am rather more benevolent than the last one."_

_"The duel," she had volunteered._

_"Yes," the otther had agreed. "As your friend said during your trial, your memory has been altered. It is obvious to everyone who knows you that you could not, would not, have done such a thing. It would be obvious to you, if it had been someone else. And if you examine your memories, you will agree that they have been tampered with. You got a cut during the duel, and the next morning it wasn't there. That doesn't fit. And the day you went into the Slytherin Dungeons, it was still light when you left the dungeons, but full dark when you came back to Ravenclaw. That, too, does not fit. You are innocent."_

_Her heart had leapt at that._

(And, thinking back, Hermione had to agree that the memory of the duel didn't _feel_ very real. All the memories were there, but it was somehow overlain with a feeling of distance, that it wasn't really true. She hadn't had that idea when she remembered it before, but she probably felt differently because of what the otter had told her...)

_"You still have friends, Hermione, who believe in your innocence. We will do everything in our power to prove it to the Wizengamot, and get you free. But for now, while you must remain here, I can offer you two independent forms of protection. To start, you might want to cast a Patronus whenever it is safe to do so."_

_"A Patronus?" She had repeatedly incredulously._

_"Yes," the otter had stated. "I know that you have learned in school how the spell works, and that you have since figured out why you failed, and how to do better. The light in you is strong, and I am certain that your Patronus will shine brighter than even the brightest Patronus you have seen."_

(Brighter than _Dumbledore's_? But then, knowing the powerful dream Harry had written in the little note, she could almost imagine it might be.)

_"If it is so bright, will it not be dangerous to me?"_

(She could not remember why she had thought it might be. Although, come to think of it, a different kind of thought for this spell might turn it into a fundamentally different spell. And that is what Quirrel had warned about, _ardently_, in his special lecture for Muggle-borns. Don't just cast spells without knowing _exactly_ what they'll do.)

_"Yes, it might be. This Patronus is different from the ones you have seen; it cannot be sensed by Dementors, and it can even destroy them if you make it go bright enough. You will be tempted to do so, but you must never make it go that bright. The Patronus is not fueled by your magic, but by your life force. If you put too much into it, you will die. If ever you feel your emotions going out of control while you have a Patronus, drop your wand."_

_"But I have no wand."_

_The otter had swirled around, and a thin pouch had fallen on the floor below it._

_"Take it, and take the wand inside it. Wear it around your neck. You will also find some other things in there to pass the time, as it may take a while before we can prove your innocence, and a scroll of parchment with useful spells should your circumstances change. Anything that the Aurors should not find on you, should be readded with a password 'Rowena'. But do **not** attempt to use it to escape. The penalty for that is the Dementors' Kiss, a fate generally considered to be worse than death."_

_"I will not." Inside the pouch, she had seen, were a lot of books. And..._

_"This, Hermione, is Ignotus Peverell's Cloak of Invisibility, rumored to shield the wearer even from Death's gaze. It will hide you from humans, although it does not stop you from being solid, and it does not block spells. However, when worn, it cannot be directly targeted. Most importantly, wearing the cloak will make you invulnerable to Dementors. This is the second protection I offer you. Do not let anyone see it, or fail to see you in your cell when they look. In fact, use it as little as possible. But if the Aurors' Patronus from your cell disappears, you can sleep under this cloak, and protect yourself with your wand while you're awake."_

_"How will I avoid discovery if I sleep under the cloak?" she had asked._

(An interesting question, as this _wasn't_ the first thought on her mind when re-examining the memory. Shouldn't she have asked first whether this was Harry's cloak? It certainly looked like it.

But of course, the otter had _said_: it wasn't really there, this wasn't a real memory, it was planted. If she said things she wouldn't expect herself to say, and couldn't remember why, then that was probably because she _hadn't_.

Just like she probably hasn't _really_ attacked Draco Malfoy...)

_"Wear the bracelet that you will find in the pouch. It is imbued with a spell to warn you whenever someone approaches. If you are asleep at the time, it will also wake you. Since the Aurors patrol every 6-8 hours, you may have to get used to a segmented sleeping pattern."_

(That wasn't so bad, she knew. According to the historian A. Roger Ekirch, this had been the standard way of sleeping in humans for centuries; experiments by the psychiatrist Thomas Wehr had confirmed that humans naturally took to this habit, given enough darkness. She wasn't too sure of the details, since Harry's books had only mentioned this as a brief paragraph, but it was certainly worth trying.

_"Thank you," she had said, while hanging the pouch over her neck. She had really meant that._

_"You are welcome. And now, I must depart. Farewell, Hermione Granger."_

_And the otter had gently swirled around her, and then disappeared._

Had it been a dream? No... it felt more real than that, somehow, even if it clearly wasn't. She touched her neck, and yes, there was the thin cord of the pouch.

With a trembling hand, she held her hand over it. "Invisibility cloak."

She felt it before she properly saw it. A jolt of magic surged through her body. Her fingers tingled, and somehow, even though she couldn't make out the words, it felt like the cloak was _whispering_ to her, or maybe singing a strange kind of song in the back of her head. She threw it around herself, and it warned her entire body.

This was _not_ like Harry's cloak. There had been a bit of a tingle when taking his, and it had felt warm on her hand, and delightfully soft on her skin, but she didn't remember the whispering or the music. And yet she had thought it was special at the time. Did Harry posses a fake, an invisibility cloak made in deliberate imitation of this one? Did he know?

But she shouldn't be wearing the cloak when she didn't need to. If an Auror came in, and saw the cell empty... She quickly removed the cloak, although she felt a bit sad as the fabric left her skin and the soft song in the back of her mind faded away. But she would wear it again, she knew, and that was a comfort. For now, she put it back into the couch (remembering to say "Rowena" before doing so) and took out the bracelet, and the wand.

* * *

They watched, behind the wall separating Hermione's cell block from the corridor they were standing in, as Hermione sat still and sorted through her "dreams". Professor Dumbledore had cast a spell to make the wall transparent, but only in one direction, so they could see how Hermione responded to the fake Memory Charm, but she could not see the large glowing cat Patronus that accompanied the invisible spectators: Harry, the two Professors, and the Phoenix.

The four of them watched, as Hermione wore the cloak and put it back, and then got the bracelet and the wand out. They watched as she wore the bracelet, and screwed up her eyes in deep concentration.

It took many long seconds. But then she made the movements of the spell, her mouth moved, and a great humanoid sprang from her wand. And they watched, as Hermione carefully lowered her wand, and smiled.

"Come. We have lingered long enough here." It was Dumbledore's voice. "Now let us move a few levels down, and depart."

Down the stairs, through a corridor, past a metal door. Another stairs, another corridor, another metal door. It was taking all of Harry's self-control to keep walking, to not ask to stay just a little bit longer, give the poor prisoners in there some Patronus-time, but it would be foolish, the guards would come soon enough. And if they paused, would he ever be able to persuade himself to leave?

Another stairs. Ahead of them, the metal door opened. The Patronus led them to the leftmost cell. Now, Dumbledore started his enchantments to break out the wall and trick the wards into not noticing this. "Get your broomsticks," he warned the two of them, and Harry did. He guessed that, somewhere near him, the invisible Professor McGonagall was doing the same.

"Hey," he whispered. "Where are you?"

A soft hand touched his head. He gently grabbed the arm, then pushed the bar of chocolate into it. He and Dumbledore had both taken one bar for themselves, for they had had to walk through Azkaban unprotected and didn't know for how long, but Harry had hardly nibbled his. He could easily stand the Dementors' proximity; he wasn't afraid anymore, he was ready to fight Death in all its forms. But Professor McGonagall would probably have a harder time. As they didn't want to be seen, they couldn't exactly keep the Patronus up while flying through the hole in the wall and away from Azkaban. It was only a brief exposure, and she should be able to handle it - it was very unlikely that she was as vulnerable as Professor Quirrel was, especially since she could cast a Patronus in the first place - but it would still be _unpleasant_ for her.

"It is done." The Headmaster's whisper. "Cancel your Patronus, and both of you mount your broomsticks." He spoke another enchantment, then, to control both brooms. As neither Harry nor McGonagall could see each other or the Headmaster (and only the occasional flash of fire from a corner of their eye), but _he_ could see _them_ (since he apparently could see through Disillusioning), the old wizard would steer them. There was a lot of trust implied in giving over full control, but considering the old man's power and position, not to mention his knowledge of and involvement in the plan so far, he already got to decide whether Harry lived or died. Harry obeyed without argument.

The wall opened like a door, and Harry was lifted into the air and carried outside. Down below, he saw the pit full of Dementors, squirming, and he felt their fear swirling around him, trying to engulf him, but he pushed those feelings away. Instead, he let himself be filled by a rush of hatred. These creatures were vile, and needed to _go_.

And then the door had closed behind them and become part of the wall again. Harry was lifted up into the air, an invisible point of consciousness, until the building was far below them. Then he suddenly rushed forward, over the sea, away from the fortress. Looking behind, there were no pursuers. Nobody had noticed their presence, or their departure.

After a long time, the broom slowed down, and then stopped in mid-air. A hand grabbed Harry's left shoulder. "Minerva, grab Harry, he's to your left." Another hand grabbed his right arm. And then he _burned_ up, and suddenly he was in Professor McGonagall's office.

The four of them appeared again. Dumbledore plunged a hand into his robes, and took out a Time-Turner. He threw the chain over Professor McGonagall's head, and pointed his wand at Harry. There was a click.

"I opened your shell. Five turns should do it." Then the old wizard turned his Time-Turner around, and both he and Professor McGonagall disappeared.

_You can do that?!_ Harry was briefly baffled. But he wasn't allowed to tell anyone about the Time-Turner anyway, and the chain on his wasn't as long. He took it out, and turned 5 times. And there he was with the two Professors and the phoenix again, in the same office.

"It is now about fifteen minutes after we left," the old wizard said. "Be seen, Minerva. Then go to bed. It has been an exhausting day." The witch nodded, and walked towards the door. Then the old wizard grabbed Harry by the arm, and they burned out and reappeared in the Headmaster's office. The Headmaster sank down in his chair.

"Congratulations, Harry. Your plan worked perfectly. I had not expected that."

"Nor I," Harry confessed. "I usually try to be properly pessimistic when planning, but somehow _nothing_ went wrong. It's almost scary how everything went according to plan. We didn't even need any of the fallbacks! But," he added as an afterthought, "it might still go wrong. Or might already have gone wrong. It all depends on Hermione not getting caught now."

"But even if so, none of us are obviously involved. You might be _implicated_, but you are still the scion of a Noble House, and you will not be convicted without more solid proof. I will arrange the alternative cloak and perform the enchantments to make it feel the way I memory-charmed Miss Granger to remember." He sighed, then. "I am not pleased with the price of sacrificing your cloak if she is caught, Harry. It's a priceless artifact. And even though it might try to come back to its owner, whether that is possible when it's in the clutches of the Ministry is a different matter. But then, she might not be caught; that _is_ the idea after all."

Harry nodded. Besides, if she was caught, _Hermione_ would most likely be lost unless there was already a plan in motion to get her out really soon thereafter, as they probably couldn't get away with doing this a second time. "This is the price of not having her escape."

"True," the old wizard nodded, "I am impressed, to be honest. You could have just walked her out of there. I would not have believed it possible."

"Azkaban's protections really aren't that great," Harry shrugged. "It's just the Dementors, and I'm not afraid of _them_. I could have destroyed them all from where we left through the wall."

_"Caw!"_

The cry pierced his heart. Dumbledore, too, flinched. Apparently, he had removed the spell of silence from his companion, who had a very obvious, blatant question, that somehow had not occurred to Harry.

_Why didn't you?_

Tears fell on Harry's cheeks. How could he have forgotten? _Hermione_ might be relatively safe, but all the other prisoners were still there, were still suffering, and he had _been_ to Azkaban, had hovered right over the pit, he could have ended the place right there and then, and he _hadn't_, he hadn't even _considered_ doing it...

"Harry..." the old wizard's voice was gentle, understanding.

"I'm sorry," Harry told Fawkes. "I'm _sorry_, I should have thought of it, should have done something, should have saved them, and I didn't, and I'm so, so, sorry."

"You saved one person tonight, Harry. That is more than we could have hoped for."

"It's not enough," Harry sniffled.

Dumbledore sighed sadly.

"I understand all too well how you feel... It is the burden of the phoenix. Fawkes, there will always be more people to save. But we saved _one_ person tonight. One innocent child who will not be eaten by Dementors, or subject to the whims of the Aurors. One more life, Fawkes. Will you not be pleased?"

_"Caw."_

It sounded better, there was a tone of approval. But it wasn't enough. Harry had taken up the task, had sworn to himself that he would destroy Azkaban, and when faced once more with his ancient enemy, he had closed his eyes, passed all those doors without it even occurring to him that he could do something right there and then...

In a blur of tears, he walked to the door.

"Harry..."

"If you don't mind, I would like to be alone now, Headmaster."

The old wizard bowed his head, and the spiraling stairs started turning as Harry stepped onto them.


	7. Chapter 87: Perspective, Pt 1 - Distance

**Author's Note:** This chapter is largely copied from chapter 85 in the original (HPMoR). This is because, when the same things happen in this spinoff as in the original, it seems to make more sense to reuse the original text (with some adaptations for different histories) than to reformulate it in my own words. Hence also why in some chapters (like the previous one) you will occasionally see some very familiar paragraphs. :)

If you don't want to reread (a slightly adapted version of) a partial chapter you've read before, skip to the last horizontal line and read on from there.

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**CHAPTER 87: PERSPECTIVE, PT 1 – DISTANCE**

* * *

Slow and hard, the long stairway that led to the peak of Ravenclaw. From the inside, the stairway seemed like a straight upward slope, though from the outside you could see that it logically had to be a spiral. You could only get to the top of the Ravenclaw tower by making that long climb without shortcuts, stone step by stone step; passing beneath Harry's shoes, pushed down by his wearying legs.

The circular platform at the top of the Ravenclaw tower wasn't the tallest place in Hogwarts, but the Ravenclaw tower jutted out from the main body of the castle, so you couldn't see down into the top platform from the Astronomy tower. A quiet place to think, if you had an awful lot to think about. A place where few other students ever came – there were easier niches of privacy, if privacy was all you wanted. He had used the last spin of his Time-Turner, as he was still on a thirty-hour sleeping cycle, so he had hours before he had to be seen in his dormitory.

The night-lit torches of Hogwarts were far below. The platform itself offered few obstructions; the stairs emerged from an uncovered gap in the floor, rather than an upright door. From this place, then, the stars were as visible as they ever were on Earth.

The boy lay down in the center of the platform, heedless of his robes that might be dirtied, dropping his head to rest upon the rock-tiled floor; so that, except for a few half-seen crenellations of stone at vision's edge, and a sliver of crescent moon, reality became starlight.

The pinpoints of light in dark velvet twinkled, wavering and returning, a different kind of beauty from their steady brilliance in the Silent Night.

Harry gazed out abstractly, his mind on other things.

_This day your war against Voldemort has begun..._

Dumbledore had said that, after the Incident with Rescuing Bellatrix from Azkaban. That had been a false alarm, but the phrase expressed the sentiment well.

Two nights ago his war had begun, and Harry didn't know with _who_.

Dumbledore thought it was Lord Voldemort, returned from the dead, making his first move against the boy who had defeated him last time.

Professor Quirrell had put detection wards on Draco, fearing that Hogwarts's mad Headmaster would try to frame Harry for the death of Lucius's son.

Or Professor Quirrell had set up the entire thing, and _that_ was how he'd known where to find Draco. Severus Snape thought the Hogwarts Defense Professor was an obvious suspect, even _the_ obvious suspect.

And Severus Snape himself might or might not be even remotely trustworthy.

_Someone_ had declared war against Harry; their first strike had been meant to take out Draco and Hermione both, and even if they were both still alive, that strike had been successful. You couldn't call it even a partial victory. Draco was back in his father's power, and if that wasn't death, it wasn't clear how it could be undone, or what shape Draco might be in when he returned. Hermione was stuck in Azkaban, where she might not be suffering like the other prisoners, but it was still a prison, she still wasn't free, and he couldn't study together with her anymore or ask her for advice. Besides, if anything went wrong – which he had absolutely no control over – he could still lose both her and his father's cloak.

Some unknown power had struck at him, and even if that blow had been partially deflected, it had still hit _really hard_.

At least his dark side hadn't asked anything of him in exchange for trying to save Hermione. Admittedly, he _had_ found himself executing the alternative, absolutely evil plan his dark side had offered, but that had been his _own_ choice. That was the sickest thing; his dark side had offered the _suggestion_, but had turned it aside for impracticality. It had been the only half-dark Harry who had taken it. Was that the price for using his dark side? That every time he called upon it, it chipped away a little more at his boundaries, making his _self_ more dark? Or was the price of using his dark side merely that it gave suggestions that would seem like _wonderful_ ideas when he was losing control?

Harry stared up at the random stars, the scattered twinkling lights that human brains couldn't help but pattern-match into imaginary constellations.

And then there was that promise Harry had sworn.

Draco to help Harry reform Slytherin House. And Harry to take as an enemy whomever Harry believed, in his best judgment as a rationalist, to have killed Narcissa Malfoy. If Narcissa had never gotten her own hands dirty, if indeed she'd been burned alive, if the killer hadn't been tricked – those were all the conditions Harry could remember making. He probably should've written it down, or better yet, never made a promise requiring that many caveats in the first place.

Tonight, Harry had worked together with Dumbledore like an ally. That wasn't the sort of thing you would do with a sworn enemy, no matter how convenient it was. Had he already broken his promise?

There were plausible outs, for the sort of person who'd let themselves rationalize an out. Dumbledore hadn't _actually_ confessed. He hadn't come right out and said he'd done it. There were plausible reasons for an actually-guilty Dumbledore to behave that way. But it was _also_ what you'd expect to see if someone else had burned Narcissa, and Dumbledore had taken credit.

Harry shook his head, flattening one side of his hair and then another against the stone-tiled floor. There was still a final out, Draco could release him from the oath at any time. He could, at least, describe the situation to Draco, and talk about options with him, when they met again. It didn't seem like a very likely prospect for release – but the idea of talking something over honestly was enough to satisfy the part of himself that demanded adherence to oaths. Even if it only meant delaying, it was better than taking a good man as an enemy.

_But is Dumbledore a good man?_ asked the voice of Hufflepuff. _If Dumbledore burned someone alive – wasn't the whole point that good people may kill, but never kill with suffering?_

_Maybe he killed her instantly,_ said Slytherin, _and then lied to Lucius about the burning-alive part. But... if there was any possibility of the Death Eaters magically verifying how Narcissa died... and if being caught in a lie would've endangered Light-side families..._

_Be careful what we cleverly rationalize,_ warned Gryffindor.

_You have to expect reputational effects on how other people treat you,_ said Hufflepuff. _If you decide there's sufficient reason to burn a woman alive, one of the predictable side effects is that good people decide you've crossed the line and have to be stopped. Dumbledore should've expected that. He's got no right to complain._

_Or maybe he expects us to be smarter,_ said Slytherin. _Now that we know this much of the truth – no matter the exact details of the full story, can we really believe that Dumbledore is a terrible, terrible person who ought to be our enemy? In the middle of a horrible bloody war, Dumbledore set _one_ enemy civilian on fire? That's only bad by the standards of comic books, not by any sort of realistic historical standard._

Harry stared up at the night sky, remembering history.

In real life, in real wars...

During World War II, there had been a project to sabotage the Nazi nuclear weapons program. Years earlier, Leo Szilard, the first person to realize the possibility of a fission chain reaction, had convinced Fermi not to publish the discovery that purified graphite was a cheap and effective neutron moderator. Fermi had wanted to publish, for the sake of the great international project of science, which was above nationalism. But Szilard had persuaded Rabi, and Fermi had abided by the majority vote of their tiny three-person conspiracy. And so, years later, the only neutron moderator the Nazis had known about was deuterium.

The only deuterium source under Nazi control had been a captured facility in occupied Norway, which had been knocked out by bombs and sabotage, causing a total of twenty-four civilian deaths.

The Nazis had tried to ship the deuterium already refined to Germany, aboard a civilian Norwegian ferry, the _SS Hydro_.

Knut Haukelid and his assistants had been discovered by the night watchman of the civilian ferry while they were sneaking on board to sabotage it. Haukelid had told the watchman that they were escaping the Gestapo, and the watchman had let them go. Haukelid had considered warning the night watchman, but that would have endangered the mission, so Haukelid had only shaken his hand. And the civilian ship had sunk in the deepest part of the lake, with eight dead Germans, seven dead crew, and three dead civilian bystanders. Some of the Norwegian rescuers of the ship had thought the German soldiers present should be left to drown, but this view had not prevailed, and the German survivors had been rescued. And that had been the end of the Nazi nuclear weapons program.

Which was to say that Knut Haukelid had killed innocent people. One of whom, the night watchman of the ship, had been a _good_ person. Someone who'd gone out of his way to help Haukelid, at risk to himself; from the kindness of his heart, for the highest moral reasons; and been sent to drown in turn. Afterward, in the cold light of history, it had looked like the Nazis had never been close to getting nuclear weapons after all.

And Harry had never read anything suggesting that Haukelid had acted wrongly.

That was war in real life. In terms of total damage and who'd gotten hit, what Haukelid had done was considerably _worse_ than what Dumbledore might have done to Narcissa Malfoy, or what Dumbledore had possibly done to leak the prophecy to Lord Voldemort to get him to attack Harry's parents.

If Haukelid had been a comic-book superhero, he'd have somehow gotten all the civilians off the ferry, he would've attacked the German soldiers directly...

...rather than let a single innocent person die...

...but Knut Haukelid hadn't been a superhero.

And neither had been Albus Dumbledore.

Harry closed his eyes, swallowing hard a few times against the sudden choking sensation. It was abruptly very clear that while Harry was going around trying to live the ideals of the Enlightenment, Dumbledore was the one who'd actually _fought in a war_. Nonviolent ideals were cheap to hold if you were a scientist, living inside the _Protego_ bubble cast by the police officers and soldiers whose actions you had the luxury to question.

_"You must not blame Professor Dumbledore,"_ that was what Professor McGonagall had said, when he pointed out that he wasn't asking Dumbledore for help because he didn't believe that the old wizard would put Hermione's interests first. _"A hundred thousand Galleons is exactly the random Lord Voldemort asked for his brother Aberforth. I don't know the details, but ever since he had to refuse that ransom Albus hasn't been the same. He used to be so much like you. But after that choice, he has grown more... cold, calculating."_

And Harry could easily believe it. Dumbledore had fought a war against an evil wizard who seemed to have deliberately set out to break him. There had been complete certainty in his tone when he had said that _this will not be the first time such choices will be required of you_. How many had _he_ had to sacrifice? Albus Dumbledore seemed to have started out with ideals at least as strong as Harry's own, if not stronger; and Dumbledore hadn't gotten through his war without killing enemies and sacrificing friends.

_Are you so much better than Haukelid and Dumbledore, Harry Potter, that you'll be able to fight without a single casualty? Even in the world of comic books, the only reason a superhero like Batman even_ looks _successful is that the comic-book readers only notice when Important Named Characters die, not when the Joker shoots some random nameless bystander to show off his villainy. Batman is a murderer no less than the Joker, for all the lives the Joker took that Batman could've saved by killing him. Are you really going to try to follow the path of the superhero, and never sacrifice a single piece or kill a single enemy?_

Fatigued, Harry turned his attention away from the dilemma for a moment, opened his eyes again to regard the hemisphere of night, which required no decisions from him.

Near the edge of his vision, the pale white crescent of the Moon, the light from which had left one-and-a-quarter seconds ago, around 375,000 kilometers of distance in Earth's space of simultaneity.

Above and to the side, Polaris, the North Star; the first star Harry had learned to identify in the sky, by following the edge of the Big Dipper. That was actually a five-star system with a brilliant central supergiant, 434 light-years from Earth. It was the first 'star' whose name Harry had ever learned from his father, so long ago that he couldn't have guessed how old he'd been.

The dim fog that was the Milky Way, so many billions of distant stars that they became an indistinct river, the plane of a galaxy that stretched 100,000 light-years across. If Harry had experienced any sense of wonder when he'd _first_ been told that, he'd been too young for him to remember now that first time, across a few years' distance.

In the center of the constellation Andromeda, the star Andromeda, which was really the Andromeda Galaxy. The nearest galaxy to the Milky Way, 2.4 million light-years away, containing an estimated trillion stars.

Numbers like those made 'infinity' pale by comparison, because 'infinity' was just featureless and blank. Thinking that the stars were 'infinitely' distant was a lot less scary than trying to work out what 2.4 million light-years amounted to in meters. 2.4 million light-years, times 31 million seconds in a year, times a photon moving at 300,000,000 meters per second...

It was strange to think that such distances might _not_ be unreachably far away. Magic was loose in the universe, things like Time-Turners and broomsticks. Had any wizard ever tried to measure the speed of a portkey, or a phoenix?

And the human understanding of magic couldn't possibly be anywhere _near_ the underlying laws. What would you be able to do with magic if you _really_ understood it?

A year ago, Dad had gone to the Australian National University in Canberra for a conference where he'd been an invited speaker, and he'd taken Mum and Harry along. And they'd all visited the National Museum of Australia, because, it had turned out, there was basically nothing else to do in Canberra. The glass display cases had shown rock-throwers crafted by the Australian aborigines – like giant wooden shoehorns, they'd looked, but smoothed and carved and ornamented with painstaking care. In the 40,000 years since anatomically modern humans had migrated to Australia from Asia, nobody had invented the bow-and-arrow. It really made you appreciate how _non-obvious_ was the idea of Progress. Why would you even think of Invention as something important, if all your history's heroic tales were of great warriors and defenders instead of Thomas Edison? How could anyone have suspected, while carving a rock-thrower with painstaking care, that someday human beings would invent rocket ships and nuclear energy?

Could you have looked up into the sky, at the brilliant light of the Sun, and deduced that the universe contained greater sources of power than mere fire? Would you have realized that if the fundamental physical laws permitted it, someday humans would tap the same energies as the Sun? Even if nothing you could imagine doing with rock-throwers or woven pouches – no pattern of running across the savannah and nothing you could obtain by hunting animals – would accomplish that even in imagination?

It wasn't like modern-day Muggles had gotten anywhere near the limits of what Muggle physics said was possible. And yet like hunter-gatherers conceptually bound to their rock-throwers, most Muggles lived in a world defined by the limits of what you could do with cars and telephones. Even though Muggle physics explicitly permitted possibilities like molecular nanotechnology or the Penrose process for extracting energy from black holes, most people filed that away in the same section of their brain that stored fairy tales and history books, well away from their personal realities: _Long ago and far away, ever so long ago._ No surprise, then, that the wizarding world lived in a conceptual universe bounded – not by fundamental laws of magic that nobody even knew – but just by the surface rules of known Charms and enchantments. You couldn't observe the way magic was practiced nowadays and _not_ be reminded of the National Museum of Australia, once you realized what you were seeing. And yet even that fumbling grasp of magic was enough to do things that Muggle physics said should be _forever impossible_: the Time-Turner, water conjured out of nothingness by _Aguamenti_. What were the _ultimate_ possibilities of invention, if the underlying laws of the universe permitted an eleven-year-old with a stick to violate almost every constraint in the Muggle version of physics?

Like a hunter-gatherer trying to look up at the Sun, and guess that the universe had to be shaped in a way that allowed for nuclear energy...

It made you wonder if maybe twenty thousand million million million meters wasn't so much distance, after all.

There was a step beyond Abstract Reasoning Harry which he could take, given time enough to compose himself and the right surroundings; something beyond Abstract Reasoning Harry, as that was beyond Harry In The Moment. Looking up at the stars, you could try to imagine what the distant descendants of humanity would think of your dilemma – in a hundred million years, when the stars would have spun through great galactic movements into entirely new positions, every constellation scattered. It was an elementary theorem of probability that if you knew what your answer would be after updating on future evidence, you ought to adopt that answer right now. If you _knew_ your destination, you were already there. And by analogy, if not quite by theorem, if you could guess what the descendants of humanity would think of something, you ought to go ahead and take that as your own best guess.

From that vantage point the idea of killing off two-thirds of the Wizengamot seemed a lot less appealing than it had half a day earlier. Even if you _had_ to do it, even if you knew for a solid fact that it would be the best thing for magical Britain and that the complete Story of Time would look worse if you didn't do it... even as a necessity, the deaths of sentient beings would still be a tragedy. One more element of the sorrows of Earth; the Most Ancient Earth from which everything had begun, long ago and far away, ever so long ago.

_He is not like Grindelwald. There is nothing human left in him. Him you must destroy. Save your fury for that, and that alone –_

Harry shook his head slightly, tilting the stars a little in his vision, as he lay on the stone floor looking upward and outward and forward in time. Even if Dumbledore was right, and the true enemy was utterly mad and evil... in a hundred million years the organic lifeform known as Lord Voldemort probably wouldn't seem much different from all the other bewildered children of Ancient Earth. Whatever Lord Voldemort had done to himself, whatever Dark rituals seemed so horribly irrevocable on a merely human scale, it wouldn't be beyond curing with the technology of a hundred million years. Killing him, even if you _had_ to do it to save the lives of others, would be just one more death for future sentient beings to be sad about. How could you look up at the stars, and believe anything else?

Harry stared up at the twinkling lights of Eternity and wondered what the children's children's children would think of what Dumbledore had maybe-done to Narcissa Malfoy.

But even if you tried framing the question that way, asking what humanity's descendants would think, it still drew only on your own knowledge, not theirs. The answer still came from inside yourself, and it could still be mistaken. If you didn't know the hundredth decimal digit of pi yourself, then you didn't know how the children's children's children would calculate it, for all that the fact was trivial.

* * *

Slowly – he'd been lying there, looking at the stars, for longer than he'd planned – Harry sat up from the ground. Pushing himself to his feet, the muscles protesting, he walked over to the edge of the stone platform at the height of the Ravenclaw tower. The stone crenellations surrounding the edge of the tower weren't high, not high enough to be safe. They were markers, clearly, rather than railings. Harry didn't approach too close to the edge; there was no point in taking chances. Looking down at the Hogwarts grounds below, he was predictably feeling a sense of dizziness, the wobbly affliction called vertigo. His brain was alarmed, it seemed, because the ground below was so _distant_. It might have been fully 50 meters away.

The lesson, it seemed, was that things had to be _incredibly_ close by before your brain could comprehend them well enough to feel fear.

It was a rare brain that could feel strongly about anything, if it wasn't close in space, close in time, near at hand, within easy reach...

Before, Harry had imagined that going to Azkaban would require planning and cooperation from a grownup confederate. Portkeys, broomsticks, invisibility spells. Some way of getting to the bottom levels without the Aurors noticing, so he could carve his way into the central pit where the shadows of Death waited. And that had been enough to put the prospect away, into the future, safely apart from the _now_. Enough, apparently, to stop thinking about it, even when there _were_ grownup confederates, when he was hovering invisibly on a broomstick over the central pit of Azkaban, when he could have just jumped down and cast his spell, and either Dumbledore or Fawkes would have been sure to catch him before he fell to his death, when he could certainly have succeeded to destroy all Dementors there even if the exertion would have killed him afterwards...

_When good and moral people are done tying themselves up in knots, what they usually do is nothing._

Harry had blamed Dumbledore, after the Bellatrix Black disaster, that he had gone to Azkaban and not torn the whole fortress down. Yet now, he himself had gone back there, and the prison was still standing. He had gone to save Hermione who, it turned out, hadn't needed much saving. The fate of one person, close and loved, could move him far more effectively than the hundreds of other, more distant people, who were suffering out of his sight.

Memories were rising up again, memories that Harry could never manage to forget for long. Though the stones beneath his feet were not smooth like metal, though the moonlit sky stretched all around him, somehow it was very easy to imagine himself trapped in a long metal corridor lit by dim orange light.

The night was quiet, quiet enough for memories to be clearly audible.

_No, I didn't mean it, please don't die!_

_No, I didn't mean it, please don't die!_

_Don't take it away, don't don't don't –_

The world blurred, and Harry wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

It wasn't Hermione, behind that door. _Hermione_ would be alright. But the woman who _was_ behind that door – wasn't there someone, somewhere, to whom she too was precious? Wasn't it only Harry's distance from her life that was preventing his brain from being driven back to Azkaban to _save her no matter what_? What would it have taken to compel him? Would he have needed to know her face? Her name? Her favorite color? Would he have been driven to Azkaban to save Tracey Davis? Would he have been compelled there to save Professor McGonagall? Mum and Dad – there wasn't even a question. And that woman had said she was someone's mother. How many people had wished for the power to break Azkaban? How many prisoners of Azkaban dreamed nightly of such a miraculous rescue?

_None. It's a happy thought._ Hermione might have such dreams, but no one else would.

Maybe he _should_ harrow Azkaban. All he had to do, he realized now, was find Fawkes and tell him it was time. The phoenix would help, he was sure, even without its master's permission. He could visualize the center of the Dementor's pit as he'd seen it from the broomstick, and let the phoenix take him there. Cast the True Patronus Charm at point-blank range and to hell with what came after.

All he had to do was go find Fawkes.

It might be as simple as thinking of the flame, calling for the fire-bird in his heart –

A star flashed in the night.

By the time Harry's eyes had jumped with a reflex action trained on meteor showers, another part of him was surprised that the astronomical phenomenon was still there; a faint star whose brightness was slowly visibly waxing. There was a startled moment when Harry wondered whether he was seeing, not a meteor, but a nova or supernova – could you see them getting brighter like that? Was the first stage of a nova supposed to be that yellow-orange color?

Then the new star moved again, and seemed to grow as well as brightening. It looked _closer_ suddenly, no longer so far away that distance became moot. Like what you thought was a star, turning out to be an airplane, a lighted form whose shape you could actually see...

...no, not a plane...

The realization seemed to spread out from Harry's chest in a wave of prickling, sweat preparing to break out.

...a bird.

A piercing cry split the night, echoing from the rooftops of Hogwarts.

The approaching creature trailed fire as it flew, shedding golden flames like sparks from its feathers as the mighty wings beat and beat again. Even as it swooped up in a great curve to hover a few paces away from Harry, even as the flames surrounding its passage diminished, the creature seemed no dimmer, no less bright; as though some unseen Sun shone upon it and illuminated it.

Great shining wings red like a sunset, and eyes like incandescent pearls, blazing with golden fire and determination.

The phoenix's beak opened, and let out a great caw that Harry understood as though it had been a spoken word:

_Come!_

Not even realizing, the boy stumbled back from the edge of the rooftop, eyes still locked on the phoenix, his whole body trembling and tensed, his fists clutching and releasing at his side; stepping back, stepping away.

The phoenix cawed again, a desperate, pleading, sound. It didn't come through in words, this time, but it came through in feelings, an echo of everything that Harry had ever felt about Azkaban and every temptation to _action_, to just _do_ something about it, the desperate need to do something _now_ and not delay any longer, all spoken in the cry of a bird.

_Let's go. It's time._ The voice that spoke came from inside Harry, not from the phoenix; from so deep inside it couldn't be given a separate name like 'Gryffindor'.

All he had to do was step forward and touch the phoenix's talons, and it would take him where he needed to be, where he kept thinking he ought to be, down into the central pit of Azkaban. Harry could see the image in his mind, shining with unbearable clarity, the image of himself suddenly smiling with joyous release as he threw all his fears away and _chose_ –

"But I –" Harry whispered, not even aware of what he was saying. Harry lifted his shaking hands to wipe at his eyes from which tears had sprung, as the phoenix hovered before him with great wing-sweeps. "But I – there's other people I also have to save, other things I have to do –" Like getting Hermione _out_, instead of just safe, dealing with Voldemort or whatever dark force was striking at schoolchildren, destroying Dementors in other countries...

The fire-bird let out a piercing scream, and the boy flinched back as though from a blow. It wasn't a command, it wasn't an objection, it was the _knowledge_ –

The corridors lit by dim orange light.

It felt like a tightening compulsion in Harry's chest, the desire to just _do_ it and get it over with. He might die, but if he didn't die he could feel _clean_ again. Have principles that were more than excuses for inaction. It was _his_ life. His to spend, if he chose. He could do it any time he wanted...

...if he wasn't a good person.

* * *

The boy stood there on the rooftop, his own eyes locked with two points of fire. The stars might have had time to shift in their constellations while he stood there, agonizing over the decision...

...that wouldn't...

...change.

The boy's eyes flickered once to the stars above; and then he looked at the phoenix.

"Not yet," the boy said in a voice hardly audible. "Not yet. There's too much else I have to do. Please come back later, when I've found others who can cast the True Patronus – in six months, maybe –"

Without word, without sound, a sphere of fire surrounded the bird's form, crackling and blazing with white and crimson veins as though it meant to consume that which lay within; and when the fire dispersed into grey smoke, no phoenix remained.

There was silence on the top of the Ravenclaw tower. The boy gradually lowered his hands from his ears, pausing only to wipe at his wet cheeks.

Slowly, the boy turned –

Then cried out and leapt back and almost fell off the Ravenclaw tower; though the misstep would hardly have mattered, with that other wizard standing there.

"And so it was done," Albus Dumbledore said, almost in a whisper. "So it was done." Fawkes was on his shoulder, staring at where the other phoenix had been with an indecipherable avian gaze.

_"What are you doing here? "_

"Ah?" said the ancient man standing on the roof-platform's opposite corner. "I felt the presence of a creature Hogwarts did not know, and came to see, of course." Slowly the old wizard's shaking hand came up to remove the half-moon glasses, his other hand wiped at his eyes and forehead with his robe's sleeve. "I dared – I dared not speak – I knew, I knew this choice above all choices must be your own –"

A strange apprehension was beginning to fill Harry, welling up in him like a sick feeling in his stomach.

"That everything depended on this," Albus Dumbledore said, still in that almost-whisper, "that much I knew. But which choice led into darkness, that I could not guess. At least the choice was your own."

"I don't –" Harry said, and then his voice stopped.

A terrible hypothesis, rising in credibility...

"The phoenix comes," said the old wizard. "To those who would fight, to those would act even at cost of their lives, the phoenix comes. Phoenixes are not wise, Harry, they know no means to judge us, save witnessing the choice. I thought it was to my death I went, when the phoenix took me to fight Grindelwald. I did not know that Fawkes would sustain me, and heal me, and stay by my side –" The old wizard's voice quavered, for a moment. "It is not spoken of – you should realize, Harry, why it is never spoken of – if the one knew, the phoenix could not judge. But to you, Harry, I may say it now, for the phoenix comes only once."

The old wizard walked across the top of the Ravenclaw tower to where a boy stood rooted in dawning horror, in dawning and utter horror.

_In my duel with Grindelwald I could not win, only fight him for long hours until he collapsed in exhaustion; and I would have died of it afterward, if not for Fawkes –_

Harry didn't even know he was speaking, until the whisper had escaped him –

"Then I _could_ have –"

"Could you have?" said the ancient wizard, his voice sounding far older than his normal tones. "Three times, now, a phoenix has come for my student. One did send hers away, and the grief of it broke her, I think. And the last was cousin to your young friend Lavender Brown, and he –" The old wizard's voice cracked. "He did not return, did poor John, and he saved none of those he meant to save. It is said, among the few scholars of phoenix-lore, that not one in four returns from their ordeal. And even if you did survive – for the life you must lead, Harry James Potter-Evans-Verres – the choices you must make and the path you must walk – to always hear the phoenix's cries – who is to say it would not have driven you mad?" The old wizard raised his sleeve again, drawing it once more across his face. "I had more joy of Fawkes's companionship, in the days before I fought Voldemort."

The boy did not seem to be listening, all his eyes were on the red-gold bird on the ancient wizard's shoulder. "Fawkes?" the boy said in shaking voice. "Why won't you look at me, Fawkes?"

Fawkes craned his head to peer at the boy curiously, then turned back and resumed gazing at his master.

"See?" said the old wizard. "He does not reject you. Fawkes may not be interested in you in quite that way, now; and he knows –" the wizard smiled wryly, "– that you are not exactly loyal to his master. But one to whom the phoenix comes at all – cannot be one whom a phoenix would dislike." The wizard's voice fell to a whisper again. "There never was a bird seen on Godric Gryffindor's shoulder. Though it is not written even in his secrets, I think he must have sent his phoenix away, before he chose the red and gold for his colors. Perhaps the guilt of it urged him to greater lengths than he ever would have dared otherwise. Or it might have taught him humility, and respect for human frailty, and failure..." The wizard bowed his head. "I truly do not know if your choice was wise. I truly do not know if it was the right thing, or the wrong thing. If I knew, Harry, I would have spoken. But I –" Dumbledore's voice broke, then. "I am nothing but a foolish young boy who has become a foolish old man, and I have no wisdom."

Harry couldn't breathe, the nausea seeming to fill and overflow his whole body, stomach locked solid. He was suddenly and terribly certain that he had failed, in some final sense failed, failed this very night –

The boy whirled and ran out to the curb of the Ravenclaw rooftop. "Come back!" His voice cracked, rising to a shriek. _"Come back!"_

* * *

In a holding cell of the Ministry of Magic, the Defense Professor lay still on his bed.

He concentrated on the link that existed between him and the boy, the resonance in their magic. He'd never known the boy's thoughts, only his feelings – strong feelings most of all – but that was much the same, in the end. It was harder at a distance, but not _too_ hard, and walls, magic or Occlumency barriers did nothing to block it.

In the afternoon, during the trial, he had also concentrated on that link. He'd sensed a jumble of anger, fear, frustration. He'd felt the boy giving himself over fully to what he had named his "dark side", and the professor had briefly regretted that he had permitted the Aurors to detain him here. But it hadn't lasted. Then he'd sensed feelings of hope, determination, anger, and a deep passionate hate, followed by confusion and guilt. And after that there had been nothing but a powerful surge of guilt and despair, as the boy responded to the loss of a friend. He had known, then, what the outcome of the trial had been, long before they came to tell him.

The boy's emotions had been a jumble, after that. From grief to anger to guilt to pain. And then there'd been hope, and deliberation. The boy must have come up with some cunning plan to break the girl out. It would be an incredibly foolish act, but the Defense Professor had little fear: the boy would never succeed in any such endeavor, for the Headmaster had taken precautions against his leaving Hogwarts that he couldn't know about. And the Headmaster would never help with an Azkaban-breakout. He might have been a sentimental fool once, but he had learned. A lesson which he had demonstrated in the trial, for what the Aurors had said. Even if he _would_ be willing to help, the boy would not easily trust him anymore after that particular interference.

The boy's emotions were a jumble again. Either he was in an emotional turmoil, or he was Time-Turned, and the professor was sensing two different instances – that was always hard to tell.

But now, suddenly, he felt the boy sink deeply into despair. A light touch of anger, perhaps, but mostly dismay, grief, and a deep sense of loss. His plan must have failed. Maybe he had discovered the wards blocking him, or he had gone too far and been imprisoned by them; maybe something else had gone wrong. At any rate, he must have realized that his final hope could not be.

It didn't matter. The boy had failed and lost a friend, through the follies and casual evils of imbeciles. Perhaps he was finally prepared to discard some of his foolish little reluctances. And the Defense Professor would be there to support him.

He severed the connection and let his mind drift off. He'd spent too much energy already. But it had been worth it; he knew, now, how to act.


	8. Chapter 88: Perspective, Pt 2 - Planning

**CHAPTER 88: PERSPECTIVE, PT 2 – PLANNING**

* * *

It was all over the paper, of course. "MAD MUGGLEBORN SENT TO AZKABAN" and "WIZENGAMOT MAKES AGE EXCEPTION FOR HEINOUS CRIME". The breakfast table was abuzz with talk. Many people were saying how they had never expected it. Others were dragging up anecdotes explaining how they could totally have seen it coming, that Harry Potter had been turning her dark all along. Many of the vicious things which were now repeated everywhere were those which Padma herself had made up earlier that year, before the ghost of Salazar Slytherin had set her straight and Hermione had become a friend. But no one believed her _now_ when she said they had just been lies.

The papers didn't say anything about Harry Potter's threat, or Hermione's response to it. The papers never wrote anything about Harry Potter anymore, not since the Ginny Weasley article, because including him in any article was sure to make nobody believe in it. But this, too, was repeated in whispers on all the House tables, as enough of the students had family in the Wizengamot for the tale to spread. At the Ravenclaw table, it was seen as a sign of redemption; the hero's love interest, having fallen into darkness, goes to her death to stop the hero from following her on this path. At the Slytherin table, the more typical response was sneering at Potter's crazy threats. Only some of the Gryffindors seemed to think that declaring enmity to House Malfoy, and to Malfoy's political section, was a good idea.

Harry Potter himself was sitting at a side of the Ravenclaw table, looking so utterly broken and destitute that nobody was going near him. He was just staring ahead with empty eyes, and occasionally lifting a spoonful of porridge to his mouth. Some of the times he missed.

Harry Potter had _failed_. He had tried to save Hermione, for whom he would do _anything_, for whom he would defy the Headmaster and Professor Snape, make pools of blood seep out from under the doors, or glue forty-four bullies to the ceiling. And he had failed. It was an incredibly sad sight to see, like something in the world had fundamentally broken.

Most parts of her wanted to leave the Boy-Who-Lived alone with his grief, like everyone else was doing. But surely he had heard the rumors, surely he had seen the papers, and he was probably thinking that he was the only person in the world who believed Hermione was innocent...

She took a deep breath and stepped up towards him.

* * *

Harry was staring into space, not really seeing anything, not tasting whatever food it was that was in front of him.

It had been a terrible night. In his dreams he had seen, over and over, the phoenix burning up and disappearing. Or sometimes, the phoenix turning away from him in disgust, as he'd taken the selfish choice, postponed doing the right thing yet again, thrown away this one chance of making a difference _here_ and _now_.

And those had been the good dreams. For he had also revisited Azkaban in his sleep, walked those corridors, heard the screaming and sobbing.

_No, I didn't mean it, please don't die._

But this time, it had been Hermione's voice begging, and he'd wanted to release her, to free everyone, but his hands were tied, he couldn't believe that he could do it anymore, he'd _failed_, he would never take the fortress down as he had once promised himself, for he would always find excuses to postpone. And he felt in his dreams the despair brought by the Dementors, but he couldn't cast the True Patronus Charm anymore, as his guilt crushed him because he had given up the conviction that every life was worth fighting for...

It was hard to shake the feeling that he had failed, that he would never amount to anything, that this was the point in life where it was too late to turn back. And maybe he _could_ still go to Azkaban, even without a phoenix to help him (for Fawkes was no longer interested in him in that way, Dumbledore had said), and open the floodgates and tear the place down, but he could never do that and survive, not without a phoenix to sustain him. And all his reasons for not killing himself still applied, but wasn't that still selfishness and fear talking?

A figure appeared beside him.

"I believe," Padma Patil said. "That Hermione is innocent. We all do, in S.P.H.E.W."

She didn't know about the phoenix. How could she? But she must think he was grieving for Hermione, and that was probably for the best. How would an innocent Harry respond? A harry who hadn't helped Hermione, who hadn't seen the phoenix?

"Good," he just croaked.

Padma stood awkwardly beside him for a few moments more, and then turned to leave.

"Wait."

_Come back in six months._ That's what he had told the phoenix. When he had had the chance to raise an army of True Patronus casters, when he could expect to take on Azkaban and _live_. He might have been able to do that last night, if he'd only realized, but that chance was gone. Was he going to wallow in self-pity now? Or could he at least be the person he'd promised the phoenix he would be?

"Can you meet me this evening, after dinner?" Padma had not been able to cast the normal Patronus Charm, even though her wandwork had been declared perfect. And she had been borrowing his books. Maybe, she could learn what Hermione had also learned.

"Okay."

She left then, looking slightly confused, and Harry felt a bit better. It wasn't the best kind of answer, it wasn't like going back in time and taking a different choice before it was too late to turn back. He would still never have a phoenix by his side to help him turn on the evil in the world and take it all down. But maybe he could still be a good person. Maybe the sensible choice could still be the right one. Or _a_ right one, at least.

* * *

Hermione huddled under her blanket.

She had spent a bit of time last night trying out her new wand, until the bracelet had heated up to warn her that someone was approaching. She'd quickly canceled her Patronus and put the wand away. A man in the bright red Auror robes had come in, followed by a Lioness Patronus, waved his wand, and a plate of food had appeared (bread with ham and cheese and some carrots, with a jug of water of the side). Then he'd left again without saying a word. Not a minute later, the bracelet had cooled down. He'd gone down the stairs the other way, she had guessed, to feed the other prisoners.

Hermione had carefully finished the food (she _was_ hungry, she'd hardly been able to eat the mashed potatoes with sausage and lettuce they'd given her shortly after she arrived, and it tasted pretty terrible cold), but she hadn't dared to take her wand or any of the books out again. Not while the Auror was still below her, and would have to come back past her cell. So, she had lain down again, and fallen asleep quickly.

She had still been asleep when Auror Li had come in to bring the food this morning (a bowl of porridge with berries, with another jug of water), but woken up when he draped a blanket over her. He had just smiled at her, tucked her in, and gone on his way. Some time later, after the bracelet had told her the Auror had come back from the depths of the prison, passed her cell, and gone on towards the headquarters, the lioness Patronus that had been in her cell when she woke up had disappeared, and was instantly replaced by the badger.

Now, she sat under the blanket, which was warm and comfortable even if it looked rather old. She could just cast _Thermos_, but she might have to answer whether it was warm enough like this, and for that, she'd need to know. One by one, she took out the books in the pouch, scanned them, and put them back. It was hard, for a Ravenclaw, because they all looked _intriguing_, but she had to know which one to read first.

Ah. That was sure to be a winner.

She carefully laid aside the _Timeless Physics_ booklet, checked the rest, and then took it up again. It was time to learn the science behind partial transfiguration.

* * *

Someone tapped Harry on the shoulder at lunch, and a boy in green-trimmed robes handed him a sealed parchment envelope.

The note inside said:

_Classroom to the left of Transfiguration, 1 in the afternoon._

- LL.

This time he _did_ figure out the initials, and he had a pretty good idea what the boy would say, too. He sighed, pocketed the note, and went back to finish his lunch before 1pm.

* * *

It was interesting to notice the subtle differences between just having a normal Patronus in her cell, and the great bright humanoid. It didn't feel cold anymore, and she was happier, somehow, more optimistic that everything would turn out alright. Although _that_ might have been because she was holding on to the bright thought that fuelled the Patronus Charm, the shining future where the world would be wonderful. But even so... Somehow, it seemed, the Dementors could still reach you through a normal Patronus. She had _felt_ that, before, but she'd thought that was just nerves caused by _seeing_ them, and being afraid of what would happen when there wouldn't be a Patronus anymore.

She turned another page in the little book. It was a very interesting read. Written for a complete novice, and just right to get the intuition. Plus, it wasn't very long; she'd probably have learned it by heart before the day was over.

It was _definitely_ a sign of Harry, though. He had tried to explain her about this before, but in between the hand-waving and the exclamations about the universe standing still for a million years and it not mattering at all, she had given up. It was just too much of a coincidence for her anonymous benefactor to just _happen_ to include this book with the other physics textbooks. And it made sense.

Harry would _always_ come to save her.

She sighed. The hard thing was, she was grateful. Really really grateful. She probably wouldn't get exposed to Dementors even without the help – the Aurors certainly seemed to be planning on keeping her protected – but all the same, having her own Patronus was reassuring. And the Cloak – woah. And most of all, the books, and the wand... Take away the Dementors from Azkaban and you'd still have something as bad as the worst kind of Muggle jail: a dimly lit, smelly cell without any natural light, with little space to move around and absolutely nothing to do other than being grateful that she was spared the worse fate. If it wasn't for the pouch, she might just go mad with boredom, instead of Dementation.

It was just that... well...

Would she always just be someone for Harry to save?

She had tried so hard to be her own person. She'd worked like mad to stay ahead in all her classes. She had become an army General, and won many victories. She had named herself a heroine, banded together with her friends, and fought bullies.

But when the people gossiped about her, Harry had set ghosts on them. When the bullies she fought had tried to get revenge, Harry glued them to the ceiling. When some unknown entity had framed her for murder (she _was_ starting to believe that it hadn't really been her, now), he'd declared enmity on an ancient House and threatened to kill off half the Wizengamot for her. And now that she had been sent to Azkaban, Harry had broken in to make sure she was fine and given her some tools to pass the time while he went about gathering evidence to prove her innocence.

Harry was the hero, Dumbledore had said, and the story revolved around him. And whoever she might have been otherwise, she had been swallowed up, and now she was just the girl he had to save, over and over.

It had been important to her before. It still was. But somehow, the idea seemed more childish to her now, it all paled in comparison to being eaten by Dementors. How many people were in this fortress, suffering day and night, like she had thought she would, too? She had heard that man sob, yesterday, and just because she couldn't hear him from here didn't mean he wasn't there. The suffering was still happening. So nearby. Wouldn't those people give _anything_ to have a friend like Harry, who would come save them _no matter what_?

Her Patronus wavered and brightened, wavered and brightened again, and she quickly dropped her wand, as the otter had told her to do. There was a soft touch of emptiness at her mind, almost imperceptible but still there, but she knew where it was coming from and disregarded it. She picked up her wand, but didn't recast the Patronus Charm. Not now.

She carefully reread the last paragraph in the book, and turned the page.

Maybe history would just remember her as the Mad Muggleborn who had attacked Draco Malfoy for no good reason. Maybe Harry would pull a marvelous stunt and she'd be the innocent girl he saved from Azkaban. Maybe she would never have her own story. But maybe that was alright. The best thing she could do was to just to _be herself_, and accept wherever that led. And right now, that meant to study hard, and apply herself to learning anything she could from the books she had.

_People grow up by being put into grown-up situations,_ Professor Dumbledore had said. And that was true, she knew now.

She had a lot of growing up to do.

Hermione turned another page.

It might not have been Harry, she considered. Or not _just_ Harry. The cloak he had lent her before wasn't The Cloak of Invisibility, and he could hardly have two, could he? It had just seemed like it was made in imitation of this one, or maybe that was just how all invisibility cloaks felt.

_Or maybe that memory was altered too,_ a little voice in the back of her mind said.

That was the terrible thing about the wizarding world. Not even your thoughts were safe. You couldn't trust your emotions when Dementors might be nearby; you couldn't trust your memories when someone might have changed them. Only cool logic remained, at least as long no one confunded you. And whatever you thought, felt or remembered, someone might pluck from your mind with Legilimency. Maybe going with Professor McGonagall, that first day, had been a mistake, and she should have just said no, stuck to the powerless, _safe_ Muggle world. Like her mother had obviously wanted her to do.

She sighed and turned another page.

* * *

When Harry walked into the classroom, the older boy was already there. As he closed the door, Lesath started casting various incantations of privacy. Then he dropped onto one knee.

"My Lord." His voice was shaky, but he pressed on. "I am sorry... about what happened."

"Were you involved?" Harry asked quietly.

"No, my Lord, I would never hurt your friends. Unless you asked me to."

"Then you have no need to be sorry," answered Harry, choosing to ignore the addition for the time being. "And I continue to insist that I not your Lord."

"Yes, my Lord. But what I wanted to say... If you need my help to get her out... Just say the word, and I will do anything you ask of me. Even if it means getting her before father... I will do what you ask." His voice broke, and Harry felt a twinge of guilt for not helping Lesath's father yet. _Like I could have done yesterday._

It was touching, how loyal the boy was. _Just like his mother._ Although for very different reasons. Had Lord Voldemort seen this in her, when he decided to subvert Bellatrix for his own purposes?

He opened his mouth to gently turn the boy's help down, but then his mind caught up with what he was doing and he closed it again, reconsidering.

Of course the boy _wasn't_ just offering to help Hermione, he was still hoping that Harry would get his father out of Azkaban as he had done for his mother. Maybe he even hoped to help with that. Lesath probably didn't know that he was the product of rape, that his mother had been given as a "reward" to the Lestranges, and Harry certainly wasn't going to tell him.

And while there was little the boy could do to help Hermione, he might perhaps be able to help his own father, and the other prisoners of Azkaban. It wouldn't even be using him, for if there was anyone who was motivated to do something about Dementors, it would be the boy who'd been agonizing over them for all his life. But would he be able to cast the True Patronus Charm?

"Get up, and take a chair." Harry gave the example himself by sitting down on a chair the wrong way, folding his arms across the back. Lesath slowly, respectfully, followed suit. "Tell me, Lesath, if you want to share... How did you grow up?"

The boy swallowed.

"After they took away my parents, they sent me to a Muggle orphanage. It was okay, I guess. I stopped slipping up and saying things about magic quickly enough, as the others just made fun of me when I did."

"What do you think happens when we die?"

Lesath blinked at the non-sequitur, but didn't question it. "Nothing, my Lord. We just cease to be." He sighed. "No more pain, or sadness."

_Well, at least half of that was promising._ "Have you learned the Patronus Charm?"

Another confused blink. "No, my Lord."

"Why not? For someone like you I would imagine opposing Dementors would be at the forefront of your mind."

"It's... I couldn't really show up to the lesson. The Gryffindors would never me accept there, and it's not really a thing you're supposed to try when you're in Slytherin anyway."

Harry nodded. Of course, someone like Lesath could not be seen doing anything out of the ordinary, or he'd be beaten up again.

"Would you like to learn?"

Lesath looked surprised. "Anything you ask of me."

"No... I'm not asking it of you. I just want to know whether you, personally, would like to be able to cast a Patronus Charm."

Lesath seemed to consider the question for a moment.

"Yes, I think I would like that."

Harry smiled. Even if it wouldn't work, if his mindset of accepting death as a release would make him unsuitable to perform the True Patronus Charm, just knowing the normal version of the spell would be a good thing for the boy. And if it _did_ work...

"Meet me here tomorrow, at 8pm."

* * *

Draco was lying on the luxurious bed in a private room in St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. He was staring at the ceiling, a sick ball of guilt churning in his stomach.

His father had not been pleased, when Draco told him everything that happened this year.

It had taken Lucius Malfoy almost no time to point out where Draco had been tricked. A prediction of "about 7" magical children, which turned out to be close to the real number, wasn't _actually_ proof of anything. Even if the whole genetics thing was accurate about things like eye color (and it probably was, Harry couldn't just have faked all those books), there was no reason to believe that _magic_ followed the same rules. Most magic didn't seem to obey the rules of physics from Harry's books. But Harry had gotten him to accept the "evidence" while he was distracted by the much worse possibility, and then he hadn't realized he should reconsider afterwards. And Harry had told him he couldn't make himself believe something else, and so he hadn't tried But that had been a lie too. You can make yourself believe that blue is green if you tried hard enough.

But the thing was... even if the _first_ step to losing his belief in blood purism had been a lie, there was still all the _rest_. Once you knew what you were looking for, you couldn't stop seeing it.

It wasn't just that Hermione Granger was the most powerful student of their year, except for himself. As his father had pointed out, you got exceptions in every group; Hermione Granger might be an exceedingly rare case, and highly awkward for Malfoy's politics, but a Mudblood like that would pop up every century or so, and Draco just had the bad luck of having one in his year.

But if you looked at the _other_ Mudbloods in his year, they didn't seem any worse on average than the purebloods or halfbloods. Justin Finch-Fletchley was normal, for a Hufflepuff, and Dean Thomas was also around average. Anthony Goldstein, the son of two Muggle-borns, was near the top of their year. Gregory Goyle, pureblood though he was, was magically quite weak, and the purebloods in the first year were overall not doing any better than the halfbloods. It really, _really_, looked exactly like the way you would expect the world to look if there was no difference between Muggleborns and purebloods whatsoever.

He'd explained all these things, as his father listened patiently, with a sad look on his face. He'd had to, because of the Veritaserum. And his father _did_ listen, and pointed out that these observations could just have been coincidences, and came up with half a dozen anecdotes of Muggleborns getting Squib children, or being so weak that they'd had to leave Hogwarts after fifth year because they'd earned no _O.W.L._s. But those were just anecdotes, and Draco couldn't stop himself from thinking that there were probably equally many such stories about purebloods, if his father only looked... Draco couldn't be convinced just by stories anymore, he wanted _proof_. And that, his father could not give.

Lucius Malfoy had considered Obliviating his son. Harry's dangerous game, it seemed, had worked. Draco's style of thinking was permanently altered. But if he could just _forget_ about science, forget about questioning your beliefs and all that Harry told him, he could be the boy again who he had been last year. He could grow up to be like his father, become a Death Eater, and lead House Malfoy's political battles for blood purism, like he'd always wanted.

It would just mean forgetting _everything_ that happened this year.

Harry's teachings hadn't just affected how he looked at blood purism. They'd been in everything. The way he led his army, talked to his friends, the way he had acted towards Hermione Granger and Millicent Bulstrode. The way he _thought_. And if his father removed the very beginning, none of that would make any sense to himself anymore. You could permanently damage someone, by removing the most crucial memories that everything else built on. So the only way for Lucius Malfoy to get rid of the mad ideas Harry had planted in his son's mind, was to remove the entire year, except maybe for the classes.

And he would have done that. It would have meant taking Draco out of Hogwarts, teaching him at home, relinquishing the political advantage of being at Hogwarts together with the other heirs of pureblood families, and the chance of his son growing into the leadership. But Lucius Malfoy would have done that, if Draco hadn't begged him not to.

On seeing the possibility to just forget everything, Draco had felt hopeful for a moment. But then he realized what it would mean.

The person he was now, that's what it would destroy. He would not remember having been an army General, or how to think _creatively_. He would no longer know that he had it in him to inspire and lead the best people of _all_ houses. If he eventually did return to school with a plausible excuse for his absence, he would take leadership of Slytherin, the House of bullies and losers, and never question it or even consider it a bad thing.

He would not have guessed this even a day earlier, but when given the choice, he realized that being the person he now was meant more to him than being the next Lord Malfoy. And that's why he had begged his father not to Obliviate him. And his father loved him, so he hadn't. There was just one thing he had removed, because, apparently, Draco had been an idiot and done something that would have given Harry Potter and Dumbledore power over him, but Draco had agreed to that.

And he was still the next Lord Malfoy. Despite everything, his father didn't disown him. Lucius Malfoy hoped that his son would grow wiser in time, and use his new-found desire for proving everything to see the obvious proofs that blood purism was true. But if not... Lord Malfoy was willing to gamble everything he believed in on his son turning out okay anyway.

It had brought tears to Draco's eyes, and he'd told his father about the Patronus, and showed him that he could cast it. If Lucius Malfoy was dismayed by this new skill, he didn't show it. He also accepted Draco's word that Salazar Slytherin could cast this spell without an argument.

Lucius Malfoy _had_ been impressed with his son's progress in creative thinking (as apparently he had watched the last battle, which Draco hadn't realized) and in leading students from all houses. However, he urged his son not to alienate Slytherin in the process. Draco had had to tell him about his mission to fix Slytherin House, and explained all about how someone like Padma chose to go to Ravenclaw instead, leaving the Pansy Parkinsons for Slytherin. His father had been _interested_, and questioned him some more about the foreign-born but pureblooded witch who was second-in-command in his army. With a smile on his face, he had reminded his son that Ravenclaw _was_ an acceptable house for a wife, and that Slytherin losing her might be sad, but need not be a personal disaster for Draco. This _hadn't_ been the point, but the Veritaserum had been slowly wearing off, so Draco hadn't felt obliged to point that out.

Draco had been in a magical sleep for most of the rest of the day and the following morning, as his body restored from the effects of the Blood-Cooling Charm. He was still feeling weak, but the Healer had said he'd be able to go back home by the end of the week.

The door opened, and Lucius Malfoy came in.

"What happened?" Draco croaked. He hadn't seen any newspapers, and the Healers hadn't given him any news. His father sat by his bed, a gentle smile on his face, and stroked his son's hairs.

"Don't worry, son. You have been avenged. A look of grim satisfaction briefly drew over his father's face, before softening again. "She is in Azkaban."

_What?_

"But I thought you were just going to have her sent to Nurmengard?" In a small part of his mind he had already worried that that might be excessive; he would have been content with having her permanently exiled from the wizarding world. But she _had_ done something totally, absolutely, horrendously bad to him, and he'd been burning with that feeling of betrayal, so he had agreed that it was only right. But _this_...

"The Wizengamot was more open to justice than I expected them to be."

"How did Potter respond?"

Lucius Malfoy shrugged. "Badly. I do believe I was mistaken about him. He is not who I thought he was."

"Who _did_ you think he was?"

Draco's father just shook his head. "It doesn't matter. But he has declared enmity on our House, and I am all too willing to grant it. You are not to talk to him again, son."

Draco nodded. That was to be expected anyway. After what Harry had done to him... There was no way they could still be friends.

"He _also_," Lucius added with an amused smirk, "threatened to take control of the Dementor in the room and have everyone who voted in favor of imprisonment Kissed. I _did_ think he was better than making ridiculous bluffs like that."

Draco's eyes had widened, his throat was suddenly very dry. "Father, I don't think that was a bluff."

"You jest."

"No. Harry _never_ makes empty threats. I've tried calling his bluff seven times on _extremely_ ridiculous occasions, and he was serious _every single time_."

"The power of a single Dementor almost killed him in January, as I understood it. How would he control one, when he cannot even cast a Patronus? Like you can?" There was even some pride in that smile, but Draco wasn't in the mood to appreciate it. He was terrified by what might have almost happened to his father.

"He can. He didn't want to show me at first, said it was some big secret, but I wouldn't help him fix Slytherin House unless he did. So he had me look away while he cast, and I saw the light. It was... there's not really words for it." And he told his father about the scene on that balcony, with Harry's insane speech and the Patronus light that felt like a sun shining brightly right next to him.

In the end, Lucius looked thoughtful.

"Was this also on the occasion when you got him to swear the vow to take Dumbledore as his enemy?"

"Yes. My vow in exchange for his."

His father nodded. "That seems to have worked out. Potter certainly did not seem very friendly toward Dumbledore yesterday. You did well there, son."

Draco suddenly had a lump in his throat.

"And you truly think that he was serious in his threat."

"_Yes!_ Why... why didn't he?"

"The Granger girl refused his help." Lucius stood up. "I suppose this confirms that Potter is not who I thought he was, although I have no idea who he _is_, then. Thank you, son. But now I must leave you. I will return tonight."

He gently laid a hand against his son's forehead once more, and then departed the room.

Draco stared at the ceiling.

Hermione Granger in Azkaban.

He could still see her, in his mind's eye, clinging desperately to his hand as he stopped her falling from the roof. When they'd trained their armies together, they had worked like a fluent team. When he'd helped her against Flint, the main point had been Slytherin's reputation, but there had still been that sort of connection between them... not quite like friends, but... people who didn't mind each other, at least. Allies.

It actually hurt, to think of her in Azkaban, having the life and magic drained out of her. Despite what she had done to him, he didn't wish _that_ on her.

Why _had_ she done that? She had somehow been convinced that he was plotting against her. Why, all of a sudden? They'd been fine just two weeks before. And no matter how angry and frustrated she had seemed in their duel in the forest, how had she come to the point of cold-bloodedly trying to _murder_ him? How could _Hermione Granger_ have figured out a way around the wards, and not told a teacher about it before? Or had she made this extremely cunning method that had evaded headmasters for over 500 years up on the spot? He should ask his father - hopefully the Aurors had thought to check how long she'd been planning it, or at least known about the possibility of the Blood-Cooling Charm and not reported it. Or _had_ she reported it, and had Dumbledore ignored it?

It didn't make sense, it _didn't make sense_. She didn't have the tiniest bit of Slytherin in her! Hell, she'd been too much of a Hufflepuff to fire a simple strike hex. She shouldn't even have been able to come up with such a plan, let alone execute it!

Draco noticed that he was confused.

But that was Harry thinking, and Harry was his enemy now, so he pushed the thought away.

Harry, who would have sent a Dementor to take his father's soul. He felt tears of anger burn in his eyes now. He had thought Harry was his friend, in that strange way Harry had of being friends with anyone. But Harry never lied. He _actually_ would have done that, if Granger hadn't stopped him.

He thought of Granger screaming in Azkaban again. No, she didn't deserve that. At that moment, he would have gladly let her go, murder attempt or not.

As long as Harry Potter would take her place.

* * *

"Why did you want to go here? It seems a bit... random?"

Harry smiled, and continued casting his privacy spells. "Because it's private, and we'll notice people coming from quite a distance. Besides... this place means something to me."

The two of them were standing on top of the Ravenclaw tower. Padma didn't say anything through the whole sequence of privacy charms. They weren't as many as Mr. Bester or Professor Quirrel could make, but they would have to do. If someone was spying on them here, well, they might already know about Harry's "special ability" anyway, and Harry wasn't planning on speaking any secrets out loud tonight.

"Tell me, Padma," he said, when he was finally done. "How do you feel about Azkaban?"

She shivered. "It must be hell there. Poor Hermione."

"Leaving out Hermione, though... How do you feel about Azkaban being used as a place to punish magical criminals?"

"I... never really thought about it."

"Could you? Consider it for a few minutes. I would like to hear your opinion."

She was silent for a while, with a frown deepening on her face. Eventually, she took a deep breath.

"I _think_ it's a pretty bad place at all. I mean, if you steal or make a "mud pie" or something or you just have a terrible temper, you're not automatically an evil person. You're just an idiot. And even if you _actually_ try to murder someone, if, if someone like Pansy Parkinson had done what Hermione was accused of, then you're a pretty bad person who deserves a lot of punishment, but getting your life sucked out of you for ten years might be... too much?"

Harry nodded. "I agree. How about the really evil people? The Death Eaters, who were sent there for life? Do they deserve their fate?"

"I don't know!" Padma exclaimed frustratedly. "Why are you asking me this?"

Harry wasn't going to let her get away with not deciding. "Suppose you were Minister of Magic or something, and you had the power to disband Azkaban, and set up a more merciful prison. I wand to know whether you would do it."

"I... I..." Padma stammered for a bit, but then closed her eyes and thought about it again.

"No," she said eventually. "Without Azkaban, what will you do with Dementors? It's horrible, and even the really evil people probably don't deserve it, you could just execute them like the courts do in India, but it's better that _they_ get eaten by Dementors than a village full of innocent Muggles. I think that's why Azkaban was made in the first place."

"Ah." Harry nodded. "And if Dementors could be banished so they would never feast on humans again?"

She gave him a very weird look. "Well, obviously you'd do that. I bet even the Minister for Magic would prefer them gone."

"You'd be surprised." Harry said dryly. "Okay, change of subject... You couldn't cast the Patronus Charm in January. Do you have any idea why not?"

"I... what? I don't know, it just doesn't work for everyone. Maybe I'm just not a good enough person."

Harry shook his head. "It has nothing to do with goodness. It might not even be happiness. Could you try casting it, and tell me what you feel? Does it feel like your happy thought isn't enough? Or do you feel afraid?"

She frowned, probably considering whether this wasn't too private to tell him. But then she shrugged and made the motions.

"_Expecto Patronum!_"

A Patronus completely failed to appear.

"It feels wrong," she decided. "The spell doesn't connect, but it seems like... Like I'm trying to do something _not-me_ somehow."

Harry smiled brightly. _Gotcha._

"I felt the same way. There's a certain kind of person who can't cast the Patronus charm, and can probably never learn. It has nothing to do with how good or happy you are... it's more about the way you _think_."

"How do you know?"

"Do I have your word not to speak of this to anyone, unless there is a _really good_ reason, like someone's life being at stake?"

She considered for a moment. "Okay."

He summoned up the silvery feeling in his mind. _The earth among the stars._ Padma, willing to join his quest, even if she did not know it yet. _In six months, Azkaban will be _gone.

_"Expecto Patronum!"_

The enormous humanoid sprung from his wand, and lit up the entire balcony. Padma jumped back in shock, shielding her eyes.

"What is that?" she gasped, when she could find her voice again.

"The True Patronus Charm," Harry said, and he willed her to have the spell, like he had done with Hermione. He could feel it, the little spark of magic as she gained the spell, even if she might not be able to cast it yet. "This form of the spell allows you to put as much strength into the Patronus as you want, without any blocks from within yourself. In fact, you have to be careful, for if you put too much in, it can drain all your life force, and kill you. But given just the right amount of strength, it can destroy Dementors."

Padma looked awed as she stared at the Patronus. There were tears in her eyes, Harry noticed.

"Can I learn that?"

"I believe so. That is why I'm telling you this."

"And you want me to help you destroy the Dementors of Azkaban, so the prison can be reformed. That's why you were asking me."

"Yes. I'm willing to teach you anyway. But I hope you will help me."

"So Hermione won't be exposed to Dementors anymore."

Could he tell her? She was not an Occlumens, but he was already gambling a lot on nobody being interested enough to use Legilimency on her. There were not many Legilimenses at Hogwarts, and once he told her the secret of Dementors there'd be a world of trouble anyway if any of them should read her mind. But if she knew about Hermione being okay, could Padma really act like she would if she didn't know? And if she didn't know, could she act like she wasn't aware that a solution to Azkaban might exist?

"So _nobody_ will be exposed to Dementors anymore." He stared into the night, to the spot where the Phoenix had disappeared. "You shouldn't do this for Hermione. It will take a while to learn this spell, and even then I _don't know_ how we are going to deal with Azkaban. I hope to get Hermione out long before that, anyway, and she knows a secret that should make it easier to deal with Dementors." Technically, that was true, even if it wasn't the _whole_ truth. "Don't tell anyone I said that, not even Susan or Daphne or any of the others."

"What? How?"

"I can't say. Just don't talk about it, okay? It's Hermione's life that's on the line if you even _think_ about it too loudly."

She opened and shut her mouth a few times, but then seemed to make up her mind. "Okay. Will you teach me your spell now?"

"It'll take a while." Harry had decided, when he thought this session over during History of Magic, that it would be too dangerous to tell her immediately. She'd first need to appreciate that death could really be defeated. He'd selected a variety of science fiction books working with this premise that she could read to prime her mind. That would be the very minimum preparation that he ought to do to make sure that he wouldn't harm her by telling her the secret. "And if I tell you the instructions, you might not be able to cast this true form of the Patronus Charm, and yet you will never be able to cast the normal form again, no matter how much you change. Are you willing to take that risk?"

She was silent for a while, looking at the spectacular sight of the humanoid Patronus still patrolling the balcony.

"I am," she said eventually.

"Then, I have a few books I will want you to read."

* * *

Wednesday evening.

They had been at it for over an hour. The older boy was picking up the gestures of the spell with the speed you might expect from a fifth-year, and his wandwork had been perfect for the last ten minutes, but the spell required something more, and Harry could see that Lesath didn't have it.

Lesath paused, wiping the sweat from his brow. "I don't think it is working, my Lord."

Harry nodded. "What was your happy thought?"

"The moment I heard mother had escaped."

It might be a powerful thought. But was it the right kind of thought to cast the normal Patronus Charm? To fuel the Patronus, you needed to take all the brightness of _life_, and put that into the spell as you turned aside your fear of death...

But Lesath had never had much brightness in his life, had he? He hardly remembered his parents, he'd never had friends. He'd never even triumphed in gobstones tournaments or quidditch, because if he drew too much attention to himself he'd get beaten up _more_ than he already was.

Was it possible to cast the Patronus charm just from hope?

Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't. In the end, it wasn't the _normal_ Patronus Charm that he most wanted Lesath to cast. If the boy had to be pushed in a direction, it would be better for both of them if he could just learn the true form.

"Lesath... I have made a vow." He stood up and walked to the window, where the stars were just visible. It was frightening, saying it aloud, but if anyone would ever _ask_ him his opinion about Azkaban, he wasn't going to make a secret of it. "I will tear down Azkaban. I will destroy Every. Last. Dementor. And if you are willing, you can help me do it." He turned around, and saw Lesath staring at him open-mouthedly.

"I'm not trying to give you false hope. I fully believe that we can do this, that the darkness _can_ be defeated. And I need you to believe the same." He tried to radiate as much confidence as possible.

"I believe, my Lord." The boy's voice ended in a sob.

"Hold on to that thought, and cast your Patronus Charm."

...

_"Expecto Patronum!"_

Nothing happened.

"It felt wrong, my Lord. Like... like the thought doesn't fit the spell."

Harry nodded. "That's because it is more a thought for the _True Patronus Charm_."

"What is that?"

"If I explain, you will never be able to cast a normal Patronus. No matter how much happiness you find, you won't be able to do it. But there is a small chance that you will be able to destroy Dementors. I don't know how small." Lesath wasn't like Padma, he didn't have the same preparation. But if he might never be able to cast the normal Patronus Charm anyway, if nobody would ever expect him to, because he was a Slytherin...

"I would give anything for a chance to destroy Dementors." There was a light in Lesath's eyes. _Yes_, Harry thought. _He would._

Harry checked. All the spells of silence were still active.

"The Dementors are a representation of Death, cast into the physical world. That's why everyone feels they are so undefeatable. Because everyone has always believed that you cannot escape death."

"But... Death _can't_ be defeated, can it?"

"People – Muggles – used to think that Smallpox or the Measles couldn't be defeated, but because of scientific research, they did." He saw Lesath nodding understandingly. The boy _had_ grown up in the Muggle world, he probably knew about vaccines. "What's the chance, really, that we cannot get over something like old age?"

It was hard for the boy, Harry could see it. So he took out his wand.

_"Expecto Patronum!"_

The bright humanoid leaped into existence. Lesath gasped.

"This form of the Patronus Charm can destroy Dementors. Never believe something is impossible just because everyone says it cannot be done."

"I... I believe, my Lord."

Harry smiled. "Cast your spell."

_"Ex... expecto Patronum!"_

Nothing. Harry hid his disappointment. "It's okay. This was only your first try."

"I... I don't believe I have it in me, My lord. I'm sorry, that I am such a bad servant."

"No." Lesath shouldn't believe that he couldn't do it. Confidence was essential for the spell. "You _can_. I am certain that you have it in you. Just keep practicing, and don't lose faith. Before the year is over, I predict that you and I will be able to go to Azkaban, together, and destroy every last Dementor. Hold on to that thought, Lesath."

"Yes my Lord."

Harry stood up and grabbed two science fiction books from his bag. "It's time to go back to our respective common rooms. I know it's _O.W.L._ year for you, and you shouldn't neglect your exams, but if you have some spare time remaining, perhaps you can try reading through these books."

"Whatever you wish, my Lord."

"I continue to insist that I am not your Lord."

"Of course, my Lord."

Harry wearily trudged back to the Ravenclaw common room, feeling guilty. He _was_ using Lesath. He'd taken an enormous risk, on an assumption that the boy probably wouldn't manage the normal Patronus Charm, but a lot could change over the course of a lifetime. Harry also had very little doubt as to how much effort Lesath would pour into reading those books – Harry could _tell_ him not to neglect his _O.W.L._s, but the boy would always prioritize what he saw as his Lord's interests.

And if it worked, he didn't even have a plan. He knew vaguely that he wanted to attack Azkaban, but could he risk Padma and Lesath's lives on that? There might be an age limit on Azkaban, but he doubted that the same would apply to the death sentence. For that matter, could he risk them getting exposed to Veritaserum? The damage would _probably_ be limited to just a few Aurors, but that was already a heavy cost to be imposing on others.

Whatever options might arise, through discussion or contemplation, there were definitely _more_ possibilities if Padma, Lesath or both of them were able to cast the Patronus Charm than if it was just Harry and an imprisoned Hermione.

At the very least, if he died, there would be others to carry on the work.

* * *

Hermione woke up with a scream. She didn't remember the dream, but it had been vivid and painful. And she was still sweating. The sick, worried feeling from her nightmare didn't abate, she was so afraid, but she didn't know what of...

It was very dark, she noticed. There was only the distant flickering glow of the oil lamp on the door. No Patronus.

Panic rose up in her. She'd been abandoned. The Dementors would take her. _Death_ would take her, because that's what they were, she remembered all too well. But that knowledge could not protect her, could it?

She shivered. The blanket suddenly didn't seem warm enough. Her sleepy mind was reeling and she could hardly _think_, it was like when she'd been sick last year, and she'd been alternating between being really hot and extremely cold, and she'd been unable to concentrate on _anything_, and her memory had been slipping...

But then, her mother had sat by her bed, and comforted her.

She held on to the thought of her mother like a lifeline. It took a tremendous effort. She felt it, the drain from the Dementors, trying to pull the warm thought out of her, but they were far enough away, and with all her concentration, she could hold it. _My mother is called Roberta Granger,_ she repeated to herself, as she shook her head, stumbled towards the jug of water and splashed some over her face. It tingled, but at least it made her more awake.

_She probably doesn't even know you are here,_ a treasonous voice inside her whispered. The panic was abating, now, and it was replaced by a deep feeling of sadness. But she could deal with that.

_Is there anything I can do?_

There _had_ been solutions, she knew. But it was hard to remember, which frightened her, until she remembered that the Dementors were interfering. So she just pushed her memory to bring up the right recollections.

_What do I have?_

She had the pouch. She looked inside it. There was the wand, but would she be able to cast the Patronus Charm in this state? No. She was almost crying from the miserable sadness inside here, there was no way she could envision and _believe_ in that bright future that she couldn't even remember properly now. There were books too, mathematics and physics and spells and Occlumency... she couldn't think of a way to use them. And then there was...

"Cloak," she croaked as she held her hand over the pouch. A pleasantly tingling feeling ran through her body as her fingers touched the cloak that was rumored to hide the wearer from _Death_'s gaze. She threw the cloak over herself, begging whichever higher creature might be listening that this would work.

And she was safe.

She spent a few more minutes crying, not from misery but from relief. The Dementors' drain was all gone; she sensed them, in the distance, but they had no effect on her anymore. Still, she had to eat two whole bars of chocolate from her pouch before she was feeling more like herself.

That had _not_ been a pleasant experience. It had taken her far too long to think of the cloak. Of all times the Aurors could stop protecting her, did it have to be while she was asleep?

Her heart skipped a beat. The bracelet was heating up. An Auror was coming.

She would have to remove the cloak.

_The Dementors are a representation of Death,_ she told herself. _Death is nothing to be afraid of. Because Harry, and I, and our friends and family will stand up and fight it!_ She held on to that thought, as she pulled the cloak off herself and pushed it into the pouch. The Dementors' drain would harm it and the bracelet over time, but it would take days of exposure before they'd stop working, and she wasn't going to keep them unprotected for that long.

She sat down on the bench, and held on to the thought, projecting enmity and an absolute plan to _destroy_ Death and all it meant to the Dementors down below. It took nearly all her concentration, but there was enough left to notice that the bracelet got warmer, but not hot; the Auror was not passing her cell. And then, finally, it cooled down again.

She got her wand out. With her thoughts so concentrated, she thought she could do it.

_"Expecto Patronum!"_

And there it was, the bright silver humanoid. She took a deep breath, and relaxed. A few minutes later, the fox returned to her cell.

_What had happened?_ The Aurors obviously hadn't stopped protecting her completely. The fox had been in her cell when she went to sleep; the same Auror was still sending it to her. So something must have caused the female Auror to call it back.

A new prisoner? That would explain why an Auror had entered the corridor, but not passed her cell. The new person would be in the other cellblock in this corridor. And if other Aurors from the DMLE had come to deliver the prisoner, the Aurors on duty couldn't be seen to be missing a Patronus...

Was she going to have to repeat this experience every time someone visited the prison? _No._ It only got so bad because she was asleep when the Patronus left. She'd gone to sleep shortly after the evening meal (with no natural light, day and night seemed to sort of blur together), so around 7... Maybe if she stuck to sleeping during the night the chance of new arrivals showing up was smaller?

Or should she sleep under the cloak? It would be comforting, certainly. But it would be risky, and the bracelet would have her wake up in terror of discovery every time an Auror came by. No, she'd rather keep that option for emergencies.

She got the wand from her pouch and checked her watch. It was 10pm, and she was still tired, but she didn't think she'd be able to sleep right now.

Time to practice some more transfiguration.

* * *

"You request... an _audience_... with Professor Dumbledore." She stared at the young boy who was visiting her office.

"Yes. Is that strange?"

"Well," Minerva McGonagall said, adjusting her glasses. "It's just that it's rather unusual for you to _ask_ first."

Harry shrugged. "I figured I might as well warn him beforehand this time. I want information, Professor McGonagall. If You-know-who is still alive and attacking _my friends_, I need to know everything. I need to know the prophecy, how we know he's still alive, and everything else that might _possibly_ be relevant. Tell the Headmaster that I'm done humoring him and his crazy wish to keep me in the dark."


	9. Chapter 89: Updating Beliefs, Pt 1

**Author's Note:** as said in the story summary, this is a _dual_-point-of-departure fic. The second departure point occurs in this chapter. From here on, the story will diverge a lot further from the original storyline than has been the case so far. :)

As with chapter 87, this chapter has significant overlaps with a chapter in the original (/s/5782108/86/). If you want to skip to the new parts (well, text which is greater than 50% new), search for "Harry was starting to wonder" in the text.

_Warning:_ in this chapter and the following ones, there are some ideas as to what might really be going on. This may or may not be (partially) relevant to the plotline of the original. Most of this has been suggested on forums and the like (and I suspect at least half the revelations in FtP will not turn out the same as in HPMoR), but if you do not like reading speculation, you may want to avoid reading on until after the final arc of HPMoR has been published.

* * *

**CHAPTER 89: UPDATING BELIEFS, PT 1**

* * *

Thursday April 9th, 1992, 7:02pm

The four of them gathered once more around the ancient desk of the Headmaster of Hogwarts, with its drawers within drawers within drawers, wherein all the past paperwork of the Hogwarts School was stored; legend had it that Headmistress Shehla had once gotten lost in that desk, and was, in fact, still there, and wouldn't be let out again until she got her files organized. Minerva didn't particularly look forward to inheriting those drawers, when she inherited that desk someday – if any of them survived.

Albus Dumbledore was seated behind his desk, looking grave and composed. He had agreed to the meeting without argument, and had remarked that they might as well combine the information session with a discussion about their options. If Harry was to lead the order of the Phoenix when he was older, he might as well get used to it now, mature as he seemed. She'd felt a twinge of pain at that, but hadn't argued, for she knew that this was exactly what the Boy-Who-Lived wanted.

Severus Snape was standing next to the dead Floo and its ashes, hovering ominously like the vampire that students sometimes accused him of pretending to be.

Mad-Eye Moody had been meant to join them, but was yet to arrive.

And Harry...

A boy's small, thin frame, perched on the arm of his chair, as though the energies running through him were too great to allow ordinary seating. Set face, sweaty hair, intent green eyes, and within it all, the jagged lightning-bolt of his never-healing scar. He seemed grimmer, now; even compared to a single week earlier.

For a moment Minerva flashed back to her trip to Diagon Alley with Harry, what seemed like ages and ages ago. There'd been this somber boy _inside_ that Harry, somehow, even then. This wasn't entirely her own fault, or Albus's fault. And yet there was something almost unbearably sad about the contrast between the young boy she'd first met, and what magical Britain had made of him. Harry had never had much of an ordinary childhood, she'd gathered; Harry's adoptive parents had said to her that he'd spoken little and played less with Muggle children. It was painful to think that Harry might have had only a few months of playing beside the other children in Hogwarts, before the war's demands had stripped it all away. Maybe there was another face that Harry showed to the children his own age, when he wasn't staring down the Wizengamot. But she couldn't stop herself from imagining Harry Potter's childhood as a heap of firewood, and herself and Albus feeding the wooden branches, piece by piece, into the flames.

"Prophecies are strange things," said Albus Dumbledore. The old wizard's eyes were half-lidded, as though in weariness. "Vague, unclear, meaning escaping like water held between loose fingers. Prophecy is ever a burden, for there are no answers there, only questions."

Harry Potter was sitting tensely. "Headmaster Dumbledore," said the boy with soft precision, "my friends are being targeted. Draco Malfoy almost died. Hermione Granger has been sent to Azkaban. The war has begun, as you put it. Professor Trelawney's prophecy is key information for weighing up the balance of my hypotheses about what's going on. Not to mention how silly it is – and _dangerous_ – that the Dark Lord knows the prophecy and _I don't_.

Albus looked a grim question at her, and she shook her head in reply; in whatever unimaginable way Harry had discovered that Trelawney had made the prophecy and that the Dark Lord knew of it, he hadn't learned that much from her.

"Voldemort, seeking to avert that very prophecy, went to his defeat at your hands," the old wizard said then. "His knowledge brought him only harm. Ponder that carefully, Harry Potter."

"Yes, Headmaster, I do understand that. My home culture also has a literary tradition of self-fulfilling and misinterpreted prophecies. I'll interpret with caution, rest assured. But I've already guessed quite a bit. Is it safer for me to work from partial guesses?"

Time passed.

"Minerva," said Albus. "If you would."

"The one..." she began. The words came falteringly to her throat; she was no actress. She couldn't imitate the deep, chilling tone of the original prophecy; and yet somehow that tone seemed to carry all the _meaning_. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies..."

_"And the Dark Lord shall mark him as his equal,"_ came Severus's voice, making her jump within her chair. The Potions Master loomed tall by the fireplace. _"But he shall have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must destroy all but a remnant of the other, for those two different spirits cannot exist in the same world."_

That last line Severus spoke with so much foreboding that it chilled her bones; it was almost like listening to Sybill Trelawney.

Harry had listened with a frown. "Can you repeat that?" said Harry.

_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month –"_

"Actually, hold on, can you write that down? I need to analyze this _carefully_ –"

This was done, with both Albus and Severus watching the parchment hawklike, as though to make sure that no unseen hand reached in and snatched the precious information away.

"Let's see..." Harry said. "I'm male and born on July 31st, check. I did in fact vanquish the Dark Lord, check. Ambiguous pronoun in line two... but I wasn't born yet so it's hard to see how my parents could have thrice defied _me_. This scar is an obvious candidate for the mark..." Harry touched his forehead. "Then there's the power the Dark Lord knows not, which probably refers to my scientific background –"

"No," said Severus.

Harry looked at the Potions Master in surprise.

Severus's eyes were closed, his face tightened in concentration. "The Dark Lord could obtain that power by studying the same books as you, Potter. But the prophecy did not say, _power the Dark Lord has not_. Nor even, _power the Dark Lord cannot have_. She spoke of _power the Dark Lord knows not..._ it will be something stranger to him than Muggle artifacts. Something perhaps that he cannot comprehend at all, even having seen it..."

"Science is not a bag of technological tricks," Harry said. "It's not just the Muggle version of a wand. It's not even knowledge like memorizing the periodic table. It's a different way of _thinking_."

"Perhaps..." the Potions Master murmured, but his voice was skeptical.

"It is hazardous," Albus said, "to read too far into a prophecy, even if you have heard it yourself. They are things of exceeding frustration."

"So I see," Harry said. His hand rose up, rubbed the scar on his forehead. "But... okay, if _this_ is really all we know... look, I'll just put it bluntly. How do you _know_ that the Dark Lord actually survived?"

_"What?"_ she cried. Albus just sighed and leaned back in the vast Headmaster's chair.

"Well," Harry said, "imagine how this prophecy sounded back when it was made. You-Know-Who learns the prophecy, and it sounds like I'm destined to grow up and overthrow him. That the two of us are meant to have a final battle where either of us must destroy all but a remnant of the other. So You-Know-Who attacks Godric's Hollow and _immediately_ gets vanquished, leaving behind _some_ remnant which may or may not be his disembodied soul. Maybe the Death Eaters are his remnant, or the Dark Mark. This prophecy could already be fulfilled, is what I'm saying. Don't get me wrong – I do realize that my interpretation sounds stretched. Trelawney's phrasing doesn't seem natural for describing _only_ the events that historically happened on October 31st, 1981. Attacking a baby and having the spell bounce off, isn't something you'd normally call 'the power to vanquish'. But if you think of the prophecy as being about several possible futures, only _one_ of which was actually realized on Halloween, then the prophecy could already be complete."

"But –" Minerva blurted. "But the raid on Azkaban –"

"_If_ the Dark Lord survived, then sure, he's the most likely suspect for the Azkaban breakout," Harry said reasonably. "You could even say that the Azkaban breakout is Bayesian evidence for the Dark Lord surviving, because an Azkaban breakout is more likely to happen in worlds where he's alive than worlds where he's dead. But it's not _strong_ Bayesian evidence. It's not something that _can't possibly happen_ unless the Dark Lord is alive. Professor Quirrell, who _didn't_ start from the assumption that You-Know-Who was still around, had no trouble thinking of his own explanation. To him, it was obvious that some powerful wizard might want Bellatrix Black because she knew a secret of the Dark Lord's, like some of his magical knowledge that he'd told to only her. The priors against anyone surviving their body's death are very low, even if it's magically possible. _Most_ times it doesn't happen. So if it's _just_ the Azkaban breakout... I'd have to say formally that it isn't enough Bayesian evidence. The improbability of the evidence assuming that the hypothesis is false, is not commensurate with the prior improbability of the hypothesis."

"No," Severus said flatly. "The prophecy is not yet fulfilled. I would know if it were."

"Are you _sure_ of that?"

"Yes, Potter. If the prophecy had already come true, I would _understand_ it! I heard Trelawney's words, I remember Trelawney's voice, and if I knew the events that matched the prophecy, I would _recognize_ them. What has already happened... does _not_ fit." The Potions Master spoke with certainty.

"I'm not really sure what to do with that statement," Harry said. His hand rose up, absently rubbed at his forehead. "Maybe it's just what you _think_ happened that doesn't fit, and the true history is different..."

"Voldemort _is_ alive," Albus said. "There are other indications."

"Such as?" Harry's reply was instant.

Albus paused. "There are terrible rituals by which wizards have returned from death," Albus said slowly. "That much, anyone can discern within history and legend. And yet those books are missing, I could not find them; it was Voldemort who removed them, I am sure –"

"So you _can't_ find any books on immortality, and that proves that You-Know-Who has them?"

"Indeed," said Albus. "There is a certain book – I will not name it aloud – missing from the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library. An ancient scroll which should have been at Borgin and Burkes, with only an empty place on a shelf to show where it was –" The old wizard stopped. "But I suppose," the old wizard said, as though to himself, "you will say that even if Voldemort tried to make himself immortal, it does not prove that he succeeded..."

Harry sighed. "Proof, Headmaster? There are only ever probabilities. If there are known, particular books on immortality rituals which are missing, that increases the probability that someone attempted one. Which, in turn, raises the prior probability of the Dark Lord surviving his death. This I concede, and thank you for contributing the fact. The question is whether the prior probability goes up _enough_."

"Surely," Albus said quietly, "if you concede even a _chance_ that Voldemort survived, that is worth guarding against?"

Harry inclined his head. "As you say, Headmaster. Though once a probability drops low enough, it's also an error to go on obsessing about it... Given that books on immortality are missing, and that this prophecy would sound _somewhat_ more natural if it refers to the Dark Lord and I having a future battle, I agree that the Dark Lord being alive is a probability, not just possibility. But other probabilities must also be taken into account – and in the probable worlds where You-Know-Who is _not_ alive, someone else framed Hermione."

"Foolishness," Severus said softly. "Utter foolishness. The Dark Mark has not faded, nor has its master."

"See, _that_'s what I mean by formally insufficient Bayesian evidence. Sure, it sounds all grim and foreboding and stuff, but is it that unlikely for a magical mark to stay around after the maker dies? Suppose the mark is certain to continue while the Dark Lord's sentience lives on, but _a priori_ we'd only have guessed a twenty percent chance of the Dark Mark continuing to exist after the Dark Lord dies. Then the observation, 'The Dark Mark has not faded' is five times as likely to occur in worlds where the Dark Lord is alive as in worlds where the Dark Lord is dead. Is that really commensurate with the prior improbability of immortality? Let's say the prior odds were a hundred-to-one against the Dark Lord surviving. If a hypothesis is a hundred times as likely to be false versus true, and then you see evidence five times more likely if the hypothesis is true versus false, you should update to believing the hypothesis is twenty times as likely to be false as true. Odds of a hundred to one, times a likelihood ratio of one to five, equals odds of twenty to one that the Dark Lord is dead –"

"_Where_ are you getting all these numbers, Potter?"

"That _is_ the admitted weakness of the method," Harry said readily. "But what I'm _qualitatively_ getting at is why the observation, 'The Dark Mark has not faded', is not adequate support for the hypothesis, 'The Dark Lord is immortal.' The evidence isn't as extraordinary as the claim." Harry paused. "Not to mention that even if the Dark Lord is alive, he doesn't _have_ to be the one who framed Hermione. As a cunning man once said, there could be more than one plotter and more than one plan."

"Such as the Defense Professor," Severus said with a thin smile. "I suppose I must agree that he is a suspect. It was the Defense Professor last year, after all; and the year before that, and the year before _that_."

Harry's eyes dropped back to the parchment in his lap. "Let's move on. Are we _certain_ that this Prophecy is accurate? Nobody messed with Professor McGonagall's memory, maybe edited or subtracted a line?"

Albus paused, then spoke slowly. "There is a great spell laid over Britain, recording every prophecy said within our borders. Far beneath the Most Ancient Hall of the Wizengamot, in the Department of Mysteries, they are recorded."

"The Hall of Prophecy," Minerva whispered. She'd read about that place, said to be a great room of shelves filled with glowing orbs, one after another appearing over the years. Merlin himself had wrought it, it was said; the greatest wizard's final slap to the face of Fate. Not all prophecies conduced to the good; and Merlin had wished for at least those spoken of in prophecy, to know what had been spoken _of_ them. That was the respect Merlin had given to their free will, that Destiny might not control them from the outside, unwitting. Those mentioned within a prophecy would have a glowing orb float to their hand, and then hear the prophet's true voice speaking. Others who tried to touch an orb, it was said, would be driven mad – or possibly just have their heads explode, the legends were unclear on this point. Whatever Merlin's original intention, the Unspeakables hadn't let anyone enter in centuries, so far as she'd heard. _Works of the Ancient Wizards_ had stated that later Unspeakables had discovered that tipping off the subjects of prophecies could interfere with seers releasing whatever temporal pressures they released; and so the heirs of Merlin had sealed his Hall. It did occur to Minerva to wonder (now that she'd spent a few months around Mr. Potter) how anyone could possibly _know_ that; but she also knew better than to ask Albus, in case Albus tried to tell her. Minerva firmly believed that you only ought to worry about Time if you were a clock.

"The Hall of Prophecy," Albus confirmed lowly. "Those who are spoken of in a prophecy, may listen to that prophecy there. Do you see the implication, Harry?"

Harry frowned. "Well, I could listen to it, or the Dark Lord... oh, my _parents_. Those who had thrice defied him. They were also mentioned in the prophecy, so they could hear the recording?"

"If James and Lily heard anything different from what Minerva reported," Albus said evenly, "they did not say so to me."

"You took James and Lily _there_? " Minerva said.

"Fawkes can go to many places," Albus said. "Do not mention the fact."

Harry was staring directly at Albus. "Can _I_ go to this Department of Mysteries place and hear the recorded prophecy? The original tone of voice might be helpful, from what I've heard."

Light glinted from the reflection of Albus's half-moon glasses as the old wizard slowly shook his head. "Not now. The Department of Mysteries is well-guarded, and we could not afford to be caught there. I do not know whether they have updated their detection webs in the last ten years, and it would take several weeks of study to be certain. But would that be worth it?"

Harry hesitated. "Probably not. But I'll keep it in mind." He looked back down at the parchment. "I'll take the prophecy as assumed accurate for now. The next part says that the Dark Lord has marked me as his equal. Any ideas on what that means exactly?"

"Surely not," said Albus, "that you must imitate his ways, in any wise."

"I'm not _dumb_, Headmaster. Muggles have worked out a thing or two about temporal paradoxes, even if it's all theoretical to them. I won't throw away my ethics just because a signal from the future claims it's going to happen, because then that becomes the only reason why it happened in the first place. Still, what _does_ it mean?"

"I do not know," said Severus.

"Nor I," she said.

Harry took out his wand, turned it over in his hands, gazing meditatively at the wood. "Eleven inches, holly, with a core of phoenix feather," Harry said. "And the phoenix whose tail feather is in this wand, only ever gave one other, which Mr... what was his name, Olive-something... made into the core of the Dark Lord's wand. _And_ I'm a Parselmouth. It seemed like a lot of coincidence even then. And now I find out there's a prophecy stating that I'll be the Dark Lord's equal."

Severus's eyes were thoughtful; the Headmaster's gaze, unreadable.

"Could it be," Minerva said falteringly, "that You-Know-Who – that Voldemort – transferred some of his own powers to Mr. Potter, the night he gave him that scar? Not something he intended to do, surely. Still... I don't see how Mr. Potter could be his _equal_, if he had any less magic than the Dark Lord himself..."

"Meh," said Harry, still looking meditatively at his wand. "I'd fight the Dark Lord without any magic at all, if I had to. _Homo sapiens_ didn't become the dominant species on this planet by having the sharpest claws or hardest armor – though I suppose some of that point may be lost on wizards. Still, it's beneath my dignity as a human being to be scared of anything that isn't smarter than I am; and from what I've heard, on that particular dimension the Dark Lord wasn't very scary."

The Potions Master spoke, his voice taking on some of his customary contemptuous drawl. "You imagine yourself more intelligent than the Dark Lord, Potter?"

"Yes, in fact," said Harry, pulling back the left sleeve of his robes, and rolling up the shirtsleeve beneath to expose the bare elbow. "Oh, that reminds me! Let's make sure nobody here has the clearly visible tattoo in the standard, easily checkable location which would mark them as a secret enemy spy."

Albus made a quieting gesture that halted the Potions Master before he could say anything scathing. "Tell me, Harry," Albus said, "how would _you_ have crafted the Dark Mark?"

"Nonstandard locations," Harry said promptly, "not easily found without embarrassment and fuss, though of course any security-conscious person would check anyway. Make it smaller, if possible. Overlay another non-magical tattoo to obscure the exact shape – better yet, cover it with a layer of fake skin –"

"Cunning indeed," Albus said. "But tell me, suppose you could craft any conditions you wished into the Mark, fading it or raising it as you wished. What would you do then?"

"Make it completely invisible at all times," Harry said in tones of stating the obvious. "You don't want there to be any detectable difference between a spy and a non-spy."

"Suppose you are more cunning still," Albus said. "You are a master of trickery, a master of deception, and you employ your abilities to the fullest."

"Well –" The boy stopped, frowning. "It seems unnecessarily complicated, more like a tactic a villain would use in a role-playing game than something you'd try in a real-life war. But I suppose you could put fake Dark Marks on people who aren't really Death Eaters, and keep the Dark Marks on the real Death Eaters invisible. But then there's the question of why people would start believing in the first place that the Dark Mark identified a Death Eater... I'd have to think about it for at least five minutes, if I were going to take the problem seriously."

"I ask you this," Albus said, still in that mild tone, "because I did indeed, in the early days of the war, perform such tests as you suggested. The Order survived my folly only because Alastor did not trust in the bare arms we saw. I had thought, afterward, that the bearers of the Mark might hide it or show it at their will. And yet when we hied Igor Karkaroff before the Wizengamot, that Mark showed clear on his arm, for all that Karkaroff wished to protest his innocence. What true rule may govern the Dark Mark, I do not know. Even Severus is still bound by his Mark not to reveal its secrets to any who do not know them."

"Oh, well _that_ makes it _obvious_," Harry said promptly. "Wait, hold on – you were a _Death Eater_? " Harry transferred his stare to Severus.

Severus returned a thin smile. "I still am, so far as they know."

"Harry," said Albus, eyes only for the boy. "What do you mean, that makes it obvious?"

"Information theory 101," the boy said in a lecturing tone. "Observing variable X conveys information about variable Y, if and only if the possible values of X have different probabilities given different states of Y. The instant you hear about anything whatsoever that varies between a spy and a nonspy, you should immediately think of exploiting it to distinguish spies from nonspies. Similarly, to distinguish reality from lies, you need a process which behaves differently in the presence of truth and falsehood – that's why 'faith' doesn't work as a discriminant, while 'make experimental predictions and test them' does. You say someone with the Dark Mark can't reveal its secrets to anyone who doesn't already know them. So to find out how the Dark Mark operates, write down every way you can imagine the Dark Mark _might_ work, then watch Professor Snape try to tell each of those things to a confederate – maybe one who doesn't know what the experiment is about – I'll explain binary search later so that you can play Twenty Questions to narrow things down – and whatever he _can't_ say out loud is true. His silence would be something that behaves differently in the presence of true statements about the Mark, versus false statements, you see."

Minerva's mouth was hanging open, she realized; and she closed it abruptly. Even Albus looked surprised.

"And after that, like I said, _any_ behavioral difference between spies and nonspies can be used to identify spies. Once you've identified at least one magically censored secret of the Dark Mark, you can test someone for the Dark Mark by seeing if they can reveal that secret to somebody who doesn't already know it –"

_"Thank you, Mr. Potter."_

Everyone looked at Severus. The Potions Master was straightening, his teeth bared in a grimace of angry triumph. "Headmaster, I can now speak freely of the Mark. If we know we are caught for a Death Eater, before others who have not yet seen our bare arms, our Mark reveals itself whether we will it or no. But if they have already seen our arms bare, it does not reveal itself; nor if we are only being tested from suspicion. Thus the Dark Mark seems to identify Death Eaters – but only those already found, you perceive."

"Ah..." Albus said. "Thank you, Severus." He closed his eyes briefly. "That would indeed explain why Black escaped even Peter's notice... ah, well. And Harry's proposed test?"

The Potions Master shook his head. "The Dark Lord was no fool, despite Potter's delusions. The moment such a test is suspected, the Mark ceases to bind our tongues. Yet I could not hint at the possibility, but only wait for another to deduce it." Another thin smile. "I would award you a good many House points, Mr. Potter, if it would not compromise my cover. But as you can see, the Dark Lord was quite cunning." His gaze grew more distant. "Oh," Severus breathed, "he was _very_ cunning indeed..."

Harry Potter sat still for a long moment.

Then –

"No," Harry said. The boy shook his head. "No, that can't _actually_ be true. First of all, we're talking about the kind of logic puzzle that would appear in chapter _one_ of a Raymond Smullyan book, nowhere _near_ the level of what Muggle scientists do for a living. And second, for all I know, it took the Dark Lord five months of thinking to invent the puzzle I just solved in five seconds –"

"Is it _that_ inconceivable to you, Potter, that anyone could be so intelligent as yourself?" The Potions Master's voice held more curiosity than scorn.

"It's called a base rate, Professor Snape. The evidence is equally compatible with the Dark Lord inventing that puzzle over the course of five months or over the course of five seconds, but in any given population there'll be many more people who can do it in five months than in five seconds..." Harry pasted a hand against his forehead. "Darn it, how can I explain this? I suppose, from your perspective, the Dark Lord came up with a clever puzzle and I cleverly solved it and that makes us look _equal_."

"I remember your first day of Potions class," the Potions Master said dryly. "I think you have a ways still to go."

"Peace, Severus," Albus said. "Harry has already accomplished more than you know. Yet tell me, Harry – why _do_ you believe the Dark Lord is less than you? Surely he is a damaged soul in many ways. But cunning for cunning – you are not yet ready to face him, I would judge; and I know the full tally of your deeds."

* * *

The frustrating thing about this conversation was that Harry _couldn't say his actual reasons for disagreeing_, which violated several basic principles of cooperative discourse.

He couldn't explain how Bellatrix had really been removed from Azkaban – not by You-Know-Who in any guise, but by the combined wits of Harry and Professor Quirrell.

Harry didn't want to say in front of Professor McGonagall that the existence of brain damage implied that there were no such things as souls. Which made a successful immortality ritual... well, not _impossible_, Harry certainly intended to forge a road to magical immortality _someday_, but it would be a _lot harder_ and require _much more ingenuity_ than just binding an already-existent soul to a lich's phylactery. Which no intelligent wizard would bother doing in the first place, if they knew their souls were immortal.

And the true and honest reason Harry knew the Dark Lord couldn't have been _that_ smart... well... there wasn't any tactful way to say it, but...

Harry had _been_ to a convocation of the Wizengamot. He'd _seen_ the laughable 'security precautions', if you could call them that, guarding the deepest levels of the Ministry of Magic. They didn't even have the Thief's Downfall which goblins used to wash away Polyjuice and Imperius Curses on people entering Gringotts. The obvious takeover route would be to Imperius the Minister of Magic and a few department heads, and owl a hand grenade to anyone too powerful to Imperius. Or owl them knockout gas, if you needed them alive and in a state of Living Death to take hairs for Polyjuice potions. Legilimency, False Memories, the Confundus Charm – it was ridiculous, the magical world was _supersaturated_ with ways to cheat. Harry might not do any of those things himself, during his own takeover of Britain, since he was constrained by Ethics... well, Harry _might_ do some of the lesser ones, since Polyjuice or a temporary Confundus or read-only Legilimency all sounded better than an extra day of Azkaban... but...

If Hermione hadn't stopped him, it was possible he could've wiped out the eviler sections of the Wizengamot that day; all by himself, using only a first-year's magical power, on account of being clever enough to figure out Dementors. Though Harry might not have been in such a great political position after that, the surviving Wizengamot members might've found it easy and cheap to disavow his actions for P.R. purposes and condemn him, even if the smarter ones realized it was for the greater good... but _still_.

If you were completely unrestrained by ethics, armed with the ancient secrets of Salazar Slytherin, had dozens of powerful followers including Lucius Malfoy, and it took you more than ten years to _fail_ to overthrow the government of magical Britain, it meant you were stupid.

"How can I put this..." Harry said. "Look, Headmaster, you've got ethics, there's a lot of battle tactics you don't use because you're not evil. And you fought the Dark Lord, a tremendously powerful wizard who wasn't so restrained, and you held him off _anyway_. If You-Know-Who had been super-smart _on top of that_, you'd be _dead_. _All_ of you. You'd have died _instantly_ –"

"Harry," Professor McGonagall said. Her voice was faltering. "Harry, we almost _did_ all die. More than half the Order of the Phoenix died. If not for Albus – Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard in two centuries, Harry – we surely would have perished."

Harry passed a hand across his forehead. "I'm sorry," Harry said. "I'm not trying to minimize what you went through. I know that You-Know-Who was a completely evil, incredibly powerful Dark Wizard with dozens of powerful followers, and that's... bad, yes, definitely bad. It's just..." _All that isn't on remotely the same threat scale as the enemy being smart, in which case they Transfigure botulinum toxin and sneak a millionth of a gram into your teacup._ Was there any safe way to convey that concept without citing specifics? Harry couldn't think of one.

"Please, Harry," said Professor McGonagall. "Please, Harry, I beg you – _take the Dark Lord seriously!_ He is more dangerous than –" The senior witch seemed to be having trouble finding words. "He is _far_ more dangerous than Transfiguration."

Harry's eyebrows went up before he could stop himself. A dark chuckle came from Severus Snape's direction.

_Um,_ said the voice of Ravenclaw within him. _Um, honestly Professor McGonagall is right, we're not taking this as seriously as we'd take a scientific problem. The difficult thing is to react _at all_ to new information, instead of just flushing it out the window. Right now it looks like we didn't shift belief at all after encountering an unexpected, important argument. Our dismissal of Lord Voldemort as a serious threat was originally based on the Dark Mark being blatantly stupid. It would require a focused effort to de-update and suspect the whole garden-path of reasoning we went down based on that false assumption, and we're not putting in that effort right now._

"All right," Harry said, just as Professor McGonagall seemed to be about to speak again. "All right, to take this seriously, I need to stop and think for five minutes."

"Please do," said Albus Dumbledore.

Harry closed his eyes.

His Ravenclaw side divided into three.

_Probability estimate_, said Ravenclaw One, who was acting as moderator. _That the Dark Lord is alive, and as smart as we are, and hence a genuine threat._

_Why aren't all his enemies already dead?_ said Ravenclaw Two, who was prosecuting.

_Note_, said Ravenclaw One, _we had already thought of that argument so we can't use it to shift belief_ again _each time we rehearse it._

_But what's the actual flaw in the logic?_ said Ravenclaw Two. _In worlds with a smart Lord Voldemort, everyone in the Order of the Phoenix died in the first five minutes of the war. The world doesn't look like that, so we don't live in that world. QED._

_Is that really certain?_ asked Ravenclaw Three, who'd been appointed as the defender. _Maybe there was some reason Lord Voldemort_ wasn't _fighting all-out back then –  
_

_Like what?_ demanded Ravenclaw Two. _Furthermore, whatever your excuse, I demand that the probability of your hypothesis be penalized in accordance with its added complexity –  
_

_Let Three talk_, said Ravenclaw One.

_Okay... look,_ aid Ravenclaw Three. _First of all, we don't _know_ that anyone can take over the Ministry just with mind control. Maybe magical Britain is really an oligarchy and you need enough military power to intimidate the family heads into submission –  
_

_Imperius them too,_ interjected Ravenclaw Two.

_– and the oligarchs have Thief's Downfall in the entrances to_ their _homes –  
_

_Complexity penalty!_ cried Ravenclaw Two. _More epicycles!_

_– oh, be reasonable,_ said Ravenclaw Three. _We haven't actually_ seen _anyone taking over the Ministry with a couple of well-placed Imperius curses. We don't_ know _that it can actually be done that easily._

_But,_ said Ravenclaw Two, _even taking that into account... it really seems like there should've been_ some _other way. Ten years of failure, really? Using only conventional terrorist tactics? That's just... not even trying._

_Maybe Lord Voldemort did have more creative ideas,_ replied Ravenclaw Three, _but he didn't want to tip his hand to other countries' governments, didn't want_ them _to know how vulnerable they were and install Thief's Downfall in their Ministries. Not until he had Britain as a base and enough servants to subvert_ all _the other major governments simultaneously._

_You're assuming he wants to conquer the whole world,_ noted Ravenclaw Two.

_Trelawney prophesied that he would be our equal,_ intoned Ravenclaw Three solemnly. _Therefore, he wanted to take over the world._

_And if he is your equal, and you do have to fight him –  
_

For an instant, Harry's mind tried to imagine the specter of two _creative_ wizards fighting an all-out-war against each other.

Harry had noted all the Charms and Potions in his first-year books that could be creatively used to kill people. He hadn't been able to help himself. Literally. He'd _tried_ to stop his brain from doing it each time, but it was like looking at a fish and trying to stop your brain from noticing it was a fish. What someone could creatively do with seventh-year, or Auror-level, or ancient lost magic such as Lord Voldemort had possessed... didn't bear thinking about. A magically-superpowered creative-genius psychopath wasn't a 'threat', it was an extinction event.

Then Harry shook his head, dismissing the gloomy line his reasoning had been going down. The question was whether there was a significant probability of facing anything so terrible as a Dark Rationalist in the first place.

_Prior odds that someone attempting an immortality ritual would actually have it work..._

Call it one to a thousand, at a generous overestimate; it was not the case that roughly one wizard in a thousand survived their death. Though, admittedly Harry didn't have data on how many had attempted immortality rituals first.

_What if the Dark Lord_ is _as smart as us?_ said Ravenclaw Three. _You know, the way Trelawney prophesied him being our_ equal_. Then he would _make_ his immortality ritual work. P.S., don't forget that 'destroy all but a remnant of the other' line._

Requiring that level of intelligence was an additional burdensome detail; prior odds of a random population member being that intelligent were low...

But Lord Voldemort wasn't a randomly selected wizard, he was one particular wizard in the population who'd come to everyone's attention. The puzzle of the Mark implied a certain minimum level of intelligence, even if (hypothetically) the Dark Lord had taken longer to think it through. So he had to give the Dark Lord some credit for that. Then again, in the Muggle world, all of the extremely intelligent people Harry knew about from history had _not_ become evil dictators or terrorists. The closest thing to that in the Muggle world was hedge-fund managers, and none of _them_ had tried to take over so much as a third-world country, a point which put upper bounds on both their possible evil and possible goodness.

There were hypotheses where the Dark Lord was smart and the Order of the Phoenix _didn't_ just instantly die, but those hypotheses were more complicated and ought to get complexity penalties. After the complexity penalties of the further excuses were factored in, there would be a large likelihood ratio from the hypotheses 'The Dark Lord is smart' versus 'The Dark Lord was stupid' to the observation, 'The Dark Lord did not instantly win the war'. That was probably worth a 10:1 likelihood ratio in favor of the Dark Lord being stupid... but maybe not 100:1. You couldn't actually say that 'The Dark Lord instantly wins' had a probability of _more_ than 99 percent, assuming the Dark Lord started out smart; the sum over all possible excuses would be more than .01.

And then there was the Prophecy... which might or might not have _originally_ included a line about how Lord Voldemort would _immediately_ die if he confronted the Potters. Which Albus Dumbledore had then edited in Professor McGonagall's memory, in order to lure Lord Voldemort to his doom. If there was no such line, the Prophecy did sound _somewhat_ more like You-Know-Who and the Boy-Who-Lived were destined to have some later confrontation. But in _that_ case, Dumbledore would probably have come up with an excuse to not take Harry to the Hall of Prophecy at all, rather than in a few weeks. Although he might still encounter "difficulties" later, if Harry asked him to make his preparations for that...

Harry was starting to wonder if he could even _get_ a Bayesian calculation out of this. Maybe it was time for another approach.

_I notice I am confused_, he thought.

If he accepted the premise that Voldemort was smart, then it all did not make sense. A smart wizard with loads of power and powerful helpers who was trying to overthrow a government so badly organized as magical Britain seemed to be should have succeeded, if not in the first month then at least in less than ten years. Or, he conceded, failed quickly and be destroyed by some other factor; even smart people were allowed to make mistakes sometimes, and Voldemort _had_ faced Dumbledore, supposedly the most powerful wizard in the world. Dumbledore might not have had Salazar Slytherin's power, but he did have many years of magical experience over Voldemort.

Those were a lot of premises he could be mistaken about, he realized. The _obvious_ one to re-evaluate was that Voldemort was smart. That's what he'd been doing so far, and the data _mostly_ seemed to fit a dumb Voldemort, but there was still a little note of confusion. Professor McGonagall thought Voldemort was smart, and she could certainly identify the smart students from the not-so-smart without ever even seeing their grades. Professor Snape, who had apparently worked for him, assigned him above-Harry-level intelligence. Even if these people were mistaken, then the data did not fit a _stupid_ Dark Lord; at least he would have to be significantly above-average intelligence. That might not be enough to be _creative_, though. Still, as this was the assumption he had started out from, and he had already taken several additional mental assumptions based on this belief, perhaps he should dismiss it for now, for fairness, and consider the alternatives.

Should he re-evaluate Voldemort's power? He didn't actually _know_ that Voldemort had discovered Slytherin's monster, and that it taught all of Slytherin's lore; that was just a _hypothesis_ from Quirrell. Even if it fit the data well, it might not actually be true. But whether that was the case or not, everyone seemed to agree that Voldemort was extremely powerful, so there would have had to be _some_ displays of power, and he'd had _help_ from some definitely powerful people. Even if he wasn't strong himself, if he had been smart, then he could have sent those people to the right places. So this premise did not seem useful to re-evaluate.

Should he re-evaluate the difficulty of overthrowing magical Britain? This was what Dumbledore and McGonagall were trying to get him to accept, that Dumbledore's opposition and the efforts of the Order of the Phoenix had halted his progress. There were several reasons to believe that they were wrong, but maybe there were things he didn't know. This could perhaps be tested experimentally, though. If he made a plan, or a number of different plans, and got the three of them to accept an _Obliviate_ afterwards, he could tell them exactly how he would do it (or partly how he would do it, and see how they'd respond in a real situation) and find out why they believed it wouldn't work. But this would take time to test. He put that one on hold for a bit.

Maybe Voldemort hadn't _really_ failed? Could he have _seemed_ to fail, so everyone would put their efforts into stopping him, while behind the scenes, he'd already taken control? But then, if he'd achieved the power that he wanted, why hadn't Muggleborns been banned, like the Dark Lord had supposedly wanted? Why was Dumbledore still alive? And in the end, if he'd actually _won_, he wouldn't have needed to keep up the pretense. So, no. If he accepted _that_ idea, Harry would only be _more_ confused, not _less, s_o that probably wasn't where the real hypothesis was hiding.

Should he reconsider the possibility that Voldemort had actually been _trying_ to take control over Magical Britain? But then, what could he _possibly_ have been doing? Setting up a situation where it would be easy to take control of the world? Or some deeper plot?

Harry was suddenly reminded of a question the Headmaster had asked him a few months ago. "_What evil could you accomplish if a Dementor were allowed onto the grounds of Hogwarts?"_ At the time, his dark side had answered that it was all just a distraction. Could _Lord Voldemort_ have been trying to distract attention from some darker plot? That was a worrying idea for sure, if it wouldn't be so far-fetched. And Quirrell's explanation had been better. _To kill the Headmaster while he is weakened._ Quirrell would have posed an obvious threat, which the Headmaster would defend against, and then use that _defense_ to strike. But all this required complexity penalties, and even in the unlikely event that Voldemort was as intelligent as _Harry_, it was pushing it to believe he might be as smart as _Quirrell_.

In the fireplace at one side of the Headmaster's office, the flames suddenly flared up, turning from orange to bright billious green.

"Ah!" said Professor McGonagall into the uncomfortable non-silence. "That would be Mad-Eye Moody, I suppose."

"Let this matter bide for now," the Headmaster said in some relief, as he too turned to regard the Floo. "I believe we are about to address some further topics, as well."

* * *

Meanwhile in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, as the students who didn't have secret meetings with the Headmaster bustled about their dinner around four huge tables –

"It's funny," Dean Thomas said thoughtfully. "I didn't believe the General when he said that what we learned would change us forever, and we'd never be able to return to a normal life afterward. Once we knew. Once we saw what he could see."

"I know!" said Seamus Finnigan. "I thought it was just a joke too! Like, you know, everything else General Chaos ever said ever."

"But now –" Dean said sadly. "We _can't_ go back, can we? It'd be like going back to a Muggle school after having been to Hogwarts. We've just... we've just got to stay around each other. That's all we can do, or we'll go crazy."

Seamus Finnigan, next to him, just nodded wordlessly and ate another bite of veldbeest.

Around them, the conversation at the Gryffindor table continued. It wasn't as _relentless_ as it'd been yesterday, or the day before, and definitely not like Monday, but now and then the topic wandered back.

"Well, there must've been _some_ sort of love triangle," said a second-year witch named Samantha Crowley (she never answered when asked if there was any relation). "The question is, which ways was it _going_ before it all went wrong? Who was in love with who – and whether or not that person loved them back – I don't know _how_ many possibilities there are –"

"Sixty-four," said Sarah Varyabil, a blossoming beauty who probably should've been Sorted into Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff instead. "No, wait, that's wrong. I mean, if nobody loved Malfoy and Malfoy didn't love anyone then he wouldn't really be part of the love triangle... this is going to take Arithmancy, could you all wait two minutes?"

"_I_, for one, think it perfectly clear that Granger is Potter's moirail, and that Potter was auspisticing between Malfoy and Granger." The witch who'd spoken nodded with the self-satisfaction of someone who has just precisely nailed down a complicated issue.

"Those aren't even words," objected a young wizard. "You're just making them up as you go."

"Sometimes you can't describe a thing using real words."

"It's so _sad_," said Sherice Ngaserin, who actually had tears in her eyes. "They were just – they were just so _obviously_ meant to be together!"

"You mean Potter and Malfoy?" said a second-year named Colleen Johnson. "I know – their families hated each other so much, there's no way they _couldn't_ fall in love –"

"No, I mean all three of them," said Sherice.

This produced a brief pause in the huddled conversation. Dean Thomas was quietly choking on his lemonade, trying not to make any sounds as it trickled out of his mouth and soaked into his shirt.

"_Wow_," said a dark-haired witch by the name of Nancy Hua. "That's really... _sophisticated_ of you, Sherice."

"Look, you all, we need to keep this realistic," said Eloise Rosen, a tall witch who was General of an army (although the confirmed word seemed to be that the armies were going to be banned, now, due to the violence they were instilling in the students) and hence spoke with an air of authority. "We _know_ – because she kissed him – that Granger was in love with Potter. So the only reason she'd try to kill Malfoy is if she knew that she was losing Potter to him. There's no need to make it all sound so complicated – you're all acting like this is a play instead of real life!"

"But even if Granger was in love, it's still funny that she'd just _snap_ like that," said Chloe, whose black robes combined with her night-black skin to make her look like a darkened silhouette. "I don't know... I think maybe there's more to this than just a romance novel gone wrong. I think maybe most people haven't got any idea at all what's going on."

"_Yes! Thank you!_" burst out Dean Thomas. "Look – don't you realize – like Harry Potter _told_ us all – if you didn't predict that something would happen, if it took you completely by surprise, then what you believed about the world when you _didn't_ see it coming, isn't enough to explain..." Dean's voice trailed off, as he saw that nobody was listening. "It's _completely hopeless_, isn't it?"

"You hadn't figured that out yet?" said Lavender Brown, who was sitting across the table from her two fellow former Chaotics. "How'd you ever make Lieutenant?"

"Oh, you two be quiet!" Sherice snapped at them. "It's obvious you both want the three of them for yourselves!"

"I mean it!" Chloe said. "What if what's _really_ going on is different from all the, you know, _normal_ things that all the _ordinary_ people are talking about? What if somebody _– made_ Granger do what she did, just like Potter was trying to tell everyone?"

"I think Chloe's right," said a foreign-looking boy wizard who always introduced himself as 'Adrian Turnipseed', though his parents had actually named him Mad Drongo. "I think this whole time there's been..." Adrian lowered his voice ominously, "...a _hidden hand_..." Adrian raised his voice again, "shaping all that's happened. One person who's been behind everything, from the beginning. And I don't mean Professor Snape, either."

"You don't mean –" gasped Sarah.

"Yes," Adrian said. "The _real_ one behind it all is – _Tracey Davis_!"

"That's what I think too," Chloe said. "After all –" She glanced around rapidly. "Ever since that thing with the bullies and the ceiling – even the trees in the forests around Hogwarts look like they're _shaking_, like they're _afraid_ –"

Seamus Finnigan was frowning thoughtfully. "I think I see where Harry gets his... _you know_... from," Seamus said, lowering his voice so that only Lavender and Dean could hear.

"Oh, I totally know what you mean," Lavender said. She didn't bother to lower her own voice. "It's a wonder he didn't crack and just start killing everyone _ages_ ago."

"Personally," Dean said, also in a quieter voice, "I'd say the really scary part is – that could've been _us_."

"Yeah," said Lavender. "It's a good thing _we're_ all perfectly sane now."

Dean and Seamus nodded solemnly.

* * *

The Floo-Fire of the Headmaster's office blazed a bright pale-green, the fire concentrating in on itself into a spinning emeraldine whirlwind, and then flared even brighter and spit a human figure into the air –

There was a blur of motion as the resolving figure snapped up a wand, smoothly spinning with the Floo's momentum like a ballet dance step, so that his firing arc covered the entire 360-degree arc of the room; and then just as abruptly, the figure stopped in place.

In the first instant that Harry saw that man, before Harry even took in the eye, he noticed the scars on the hands, the scars on the face, like the man had been burned and cut over his entire body; though only the man's hands and face were visible, of all his flesh. The rest of the man's body was hidden, encased not in robes, but in leather that looked more like armor than clothing; dark gray leather, matching the man's mess of grayed hair.

The next thing that Harry's vision comprehended was the brilliant blue eye occupying the right side of the man's face.

And his brain noticed the jolt of adrenaline. Harry had drawn his wand in sheer reflex when the man had spun out of the Floo like that, there'd been something about it that felt like _ambush_, Harry's hand had already started to level his wand for a _Somnium_ before he'd managed to stop himself. Even now the armored man was holding his wand level, not pointed at any particular person but covering the whole room, and that wand was already in perfect line with his eyes, like a soldier sighting down a gun. There was danger in the man's stance and the set of his boots, danger in the leather armor he wore and danger in that brilliant blue eye.

When the scarred man spoke, addressing the Headmaster, his voice was edged. "I suppose you think this room is secure?"

"There are only friends here," Dumbledore said.

The man's head jerked toward Harry. "That include _him_?"

"If Harry Potter is not our friend," Dumbledore said gravely, "then we are all certainly doomed; so we may as well assume that he is."

The man's wand stayed level, not quite pointing at Harry. "Boy almost drew on me just then."

"Er..." Harry said. He noticed that his hand was still tightly holding the wand, and consciously relaxed his hand and dropped it back to his side. "Sorry about that, you looked a bit... combat-ready."

The scarred man's wand moved slightly away from where it had almost pointed at Harry, though it didn't lower, and the man let out a short bark of laughter. "Constant vigilance, eh, lad?" said the man.

"It's not paranoia if they really are out to get you," Harry recited the proverb.

The man turned fully toward Harry; and insofar as Harry could read any expression on the scarred face, the man now looked _interested_.

Dumbledore's eyes had regained some of the brilliant twinkle that they'd had before the Azkaban breakout, a smile beneath his silver mustache as though that smile had never left. "Harry, this is Alastor Moody, called also Mad-Eye, who will command the Order of the Phoenix after me – if anything should happen to me, that is. Alastor, this is Harry Potter, who I invited you here to meet today. I have every hope the two of you shall get along _fantastically_."

"I've heard a good deal about you, boy," said Mad-Eye Moody. His one dark natural eye stayed fixed on Harry, while the point of brilliant blue spun frantically, seeming to rotate all the way around within its socket. "Not all of it good. Do you regularly threaten to kill off half the powerful people in the country, or is that just for special occasions?"

After some consideration, Harry just shrugged apologetically.

"What were you really planning, kid?" the man said softly. "Did you think Albus would fall for it? Or were you deliberately trying to get everyone to write you off as a stupid kid so they won't expect anything clever next time?"

Harry hadn't even considered that possibility. He filed it away for future use. It was one way to deal with that particular fiasco, anyway.

The scarred man turned his face a little and gazed at Harry, turning both a brown and a brilliant blue eye at him, meeting his eyes.

The sudden fury of the Legilimency attack almost made Harry fall off his chair, as a blade of white-hot steel cut into the imaginary person at the forefront of his mind. Harry hadn't had a chance to practice since Mr. Bester's training, and he very nearly lost his grip on the imaginary person the back-of-his-mind was pretending to be, as that person's world turned into searing lava and a furious probe of questions. Harry almost lost his grip on only _pretending_ to hallucinate, only _pretending_ to be the imaginary person that was screaming in shock and pain as the Legilimency tore apart his sanity and reshaped him to believe that he was on fire –

Harry managed to break eye contact, dropping his eyes to Moody's chin.

"You're out of practice, boy," Moody said. Harry wasn't looking at the man's face, but his voice was deadly grim. "And I'll warn you of this but once. Voldie isn't like any other Legilimens in recorded history. He doesn't need to look you in the eyes, and if your shields are that rusty he'll creep in so softly you'd never notice a thing."

"Duly noted," Harry said to the scarred chin. Harry was more shaken than he'd have admitted; Mr. Bester hadn't been anywhere near that powerful, and had never tested Harry like _that_. Pretending to be someone hurting that much had... Harry couldn't find words for describing what it felt like to contain an imaginary person in that much pain, but it hadn't been _normal_.

"You know, Alastor," the Headmaster said conversationally, "it's kind of rude to do that without asking."

"Do you think Voldie's going to ask, before he picks all our secrets out of the boy's mind?"

"Oh, I am not complaining. It was merely an idle comment."

"Do I get any credit for being an Occlumens in the first place?" Harry asked, regaining some of his composure.

The ex-Auror snorted. "So you're think you're all grown up already, eh? Look me in the eyes!"

Harry strengthened his shields, and looked once more into the dark grey eye and the brilliant blue.

"Ever watched someone die?" asked Mad-Eye Moody.

"My parents," Harry said without flinching. "I recovered the memory in January when I went in front of a Dementor to learn the Patronus Charm. I remember You-Know-Who's voice –" A chill went through Harry's body, his wand twitching in his hand. "My main tactical report is that You-Know-Who could speak the Killing Curse in less than half a second, but you probably already knew that."

There was a gasp from Professor McGonagall's direction, and Severus's face had tightened.

"Yes," Moody growled softly. "We did. Ever experienced the Cruciatus Curse?"

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I think that is quite enough for the moment, Alastor. Before you arrived, we were discussing about Voldemort. Do you have input on what his motive for attacking the Malfoy boy could be? My current hypothesis is that he was striking at the strongest allies of his future enemy, but you might have a different view?"

"Are you sure it's Voldie?" the scarred man growled. Harry quietly cheered.

"Who else would have done such a thing?"

Moody glared around the room. "Present company excluded?"

"All these people have my trust, Alastor."

The ex-Auror snorted. "That trust is gonna get you killed some day, mark my words. But even so you're missing the obvious culprit. In fact, that's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about –" He fished a black folder from within his leather armor. "Have you ever given even a passing thought to that Defense Professor of yours?"

* * *

"...so I fear I must take my leave," Dumbledore was saying gravely. "I promised Quirinus... that is to say, I promised the Defense Professor... that I would not make any attempt to uncover his true identity, in my own person or any other."

"And why'd you make a fool promise like that, then?" snapped Mad-Eye Moody.

"It was an unalterable condition of his employment, or so he said." Dumbledore glanced at Professor McGonagall, a wry smile briefly flitting over his face. "And Minerva made it clear to me that Hogwarts _required_ a competent Defense Professor this year, even if I had to haul Grindelwald out of Nurmengard and prevail on old affections to persuade him to take the position."

"I did not _quite_ phrase it in that fashion –"

"Your expression said it for you, my dear."

And so, a few minutes later, the four of them – Harry, Professor McGonagall, the Potions Master, and Alastor Moody aka 'Mad-Eye' – were ensconced all by themselves in the Headmaster's office.

It was strange how the Headmaster's office seemed... _unbalanced_... without the Headmaster in it. If you didn't have the ancient wizened master to make it all seem _solemn_, you were just four people trying to have a serious meeting while surrounded by bizarre, noisy gidgets. Clearly visible from where Harry had perched himself on his chair's arm was a truncated-conical object, like a cone with its top snipped off, slowly spinning around a pulsating central light which it shaded but did not obscure; and each time the inner light pulsated, the assembly made a _vroop-vroop-vroop_ sound that sounded oddly distant, muffled like it was coming from behind four solid walls, even though the spinning-conical-section thingy was only a meter or two away.

_Vroop... vroop... vroop..._

"All right, then," Moody said, looking rather sour as he spread the parchments from the folder over the Headmaster's desk. "This is a copy of what Amelia's people put together. She almost certainly knows we've got it, but it's all off the books, that clear? Anyway –"

And Moody told them who the Department of Magical Law Enforcement thought 'Quirinus Quirrell' really was. A seemingly ordinary Hogwarts student (though talented enough that he'd been only narrowly beaten out for the Head Boy position) who'd gone vacationing in Albania after his graduation, disappeared, returned after 25 years, and then been caught up in the Wizarding War –

"It was murdering the House of Monroe that made Voldie's name," Moody said. "Until then, he was just another Dark Wizard with delusions of grandeur and Bellatrix Black. But after that –" Moody snorted. "Every fool in the country flocked to serve him. You would've _hoped_ the Wizengamot would turn serious, once they realized Voldie was willing to kill their own sacred selves. And that's just what the bastards did – _hope_ that some other bastard would turn serious. None of the cowards wanted to step in front. It was Monroe, Crouch, Bones, and Longbottom. That was nearly everyone in the Ministry who'd dare say a word that might give Voldie offense."

"I remember the name," Professor Snape cut in. "Didn't he draft the Monroe Act, that allowed the Unforgivable Curses to be used on Death Eaters?"

"One of this few successes," Mad-Eye Moody nodded. "Mostly, however, the people in power obstinately refused to cooperate with his ideas. Didn't want him to become too powerful after the war, see? When he was successful, they convinced themselves that he did not need more powers, or too much of their help. And when he failed, his arguments only seemed _less_ convincing. About two years into the war, Monroe disappeared. Everyone thought Voldie had finally got him. _Eight ruddy years_ of complete horror followed, like a dam breaking and gore flooding out, drowning the whole country. Albus bloody Dumbledore himself had to step into Monroe's shoes, and that was barely enough for us to survive."

Harry listened with an odd sense of unreality. Some of it _felt_ right, matched up with observation – especially with the speech Professor Quirrell had made before Christmas – and yet...

This was _Professor Quirrell_ they were talking about.

"So that's who the Department thinks is your Defense Professor," Mad-Eye Moody finished up his account. "Now what do you think, son?"

"Well..." Harry said slowly. _It is also possible to have a mask behind the mask._ "The obvious next thought is that this 'David Monroe' person died in the war after all, and this is just someone else pretending to be David Monroe pretending to be Quirinus Quirrell."

"That's _obvious?_" said Professor McGonagall. "Dear Merlin..."

"Really, boy?" said Mad-Eye Moody, his blue eye spinning rapidly. "I'd say that's a little... _paranoid_."

_You don't know Professor Quirrell_, Harry did not say. "It's an easy theory to test," Harry said out loud. "Just check whether the Defense Professor remembers something about the war that the real David Monroe would've known. Though I suppose, if he's playing the part of David Monroe _pretending_ to be someone else, he has a good excuse to _pretend_ he's pretending he doesn't know what you're talking about –"

"A _little_ paranoid," said the scarred man, his voice rising. "_Not paranoid enough! CONSTANT VIGILANCE!_ Think about it, lad – what if the real David Monroe never came back from Albania?"

There was a pause.

"I see..." Harry said.

"Of course you do," Professor McGonagall said. "Don't mind me, please. I'll just sit here quietly going mad."

"In this line of work, if you survive, you learn that there's three kinds of Dark Wizards," Moody said grimly; his wand wasn't pointed at anyone, it was angled slightly downward, but it was in his hand. It had never left his hand since the moment he'd entered the room. "There's Dark Wizards that have one name. There's Dark Wizards that have two names. And there's Dark Wizards that change names like you and I change clothes. I saw 'Monroe' go through three Death Eaters like he was snapping twigs. There's not many wizards that good at age forty-five. Dumbledore, maybe, but not many others."

"Perhaps that is true," said the Potions Master from where he was lurking. "But what of it, Mad-Eye? Whatever his identity, Monroe was surely the Dark Lord's enemy. I've heard Death Eaters curse his name even after they thought him dead. They certainly feared him."

"So far as Defense Professors are concerned," Professor McGonagall said primly, "I shall take it and be grateful."

Moody swung around to glare at her. "Just where the devil was 'Monroe' all those years he was gone, eh? Maybe he thought he could make a name for himself in Britain by opposing Voldie, and vanished away when he found out he was wrong. Then why'd he come back _now_, hah? What's his _new_ plan?"

"He, ah..." Harry ventured tentatively. "He _says_ he always wanted to be a great Defense Professor because all the best fighting wizards have taught at Hogwarts. And he kind of _is_ being an incredibly good Defense Professor, actually... I mean, if he just wanted to keep up a disguise, he could get away with _much_ sloppier work..."

Professor McGonagall was nodding firmly.

"Naive," Moody said flatly. "I suppose you all haven't wondered if your Defense Professor set up the whole House of Monroe to be wiped out?"

"_What?_" cried Professor McGonagall.

"Our mystery wizard hears about a missing kid from a Most Ancient House of Britain," Moody said. "Steps into the shoes of 'David Monroe', but stays away from the real Monroe family. But eventually the House is bound to notice something wrong. So this imposter somehow prods Voldie into wiping them all out – maybe leaked a password they'd given him for their wards – and then he was a Lord of the Wizengamot!"

There seemed to be a fight going on inside Harry's mind between Hufflepuff One, who'd never trusted the Defense Professor in the first place; and Hufflepuff Two, who was far too loyal to Harry's friend, Professor Quirrell, to believe something like that just because Moody said so.

_It_ is _kind of obvious, though,_ observed his Slytherin part. _I mean, do you actually believe that under natural circumstances, anyone would end up as the last heir to a Most Ancient House AND Lord Voldemort killed his family AND he has to avenge his martial arts sensei? If anything I'd say he went too far over the top in setting up his new identity as the ideal literary hero. That sort of thing doesn't happen in real life._

_This from an orphan who was raised unaware of his heritage_, commented Harry's Inner Critic. _With a prophecy about him. You know, I don't think we've ever read a story about two equally destined heroes competing to see who's cliched enough to take down the villain –  
_

_Yes_, replied the central Harry over the distant vroop-ing noise in the background, _it's a very sad life we lead and YOU'RE NOT HELPING._

_There's only one thing to do at this point_, said Ravenclaw. _And we all know what it is, so why argue?_

_But_, Harry replied, _how_ do _we test experimentally whether or not Professor Quirrell is the original David Monroe? I mean, what sort of observable behaves differently, depending on whether he's the real David Monroe or an impostor?_

"What do you want me to do about it, Mad-Eye?" Professor McGonagall was demanding. "I can't –"

"You can," the scarred man said, glaring at her fiercely. "Just fire the bloody Defense Professor."

"You say that _every_ year," said Professor McGonagall.

"Yes, and I'm always right!"

"Constant vigilance or no, Alastor, the students must be taught!"

Moody snorted. "Pfah! I swear the curse gets worse every year, as you lot get more and more reluctant to let them go. Your precious Professor Quirrell would have to _be_ Grindelwald in disguise, to get himself sent off!"

"Is he?" Harry couldn't help asking. "I mean, could he _actually_ be –"

"I check Grindie's cell every two months," Moody said. "He was there in March."

"Could the person in the cell be a ringer?"

"I administer a blood test for his identity, son."

"Where do you keep the blood you use as a reference?"

"In a safe place." Something like a smile was stretching the scarred lips. "Have you considered the Auror Office after you graduate?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't think I agree quite enough with the government to enforce its laws, but let's not go there. Could he be You-Know-Who in disguise?"

Professor McGonagall gasped in shock, and even Professor Snape in the corner seemed almost to jump. Harry shrugged. "t's just the obvious next question."

Moody, however, appeared to consider the question seriously.

"It would certainly fit those little _naptimes_ Amelia wrote about, if Quirrell is possessed by Voldie's spirit. But you're still alive, aren't you boy?"

That was a fair point. Quirrell might not be able to cast spells on him, or even physically come close to him, but it wouldn't be particularly hard to poison his tea, especially since Quirrell was usually the one pouring it. But then, didn't that count for everyone? Forget about Quirrell, why _was_ he still alive? If he had some enemy who was striking at his friends, then why had they left _him_ alone? If poisoning his cup was too blatant, they could have set up something like the Hermione-Draco murder attempt, only with him as a target...

"Is there any reason to believe You-Know-Who wants me dead?" The others gave him some very strange looks. "Other than him trying to kill me as a baby, I mean? A lot of time has passed, he might have changed his mind..."

"Certainly he would want you alive to take your blood," Severus Snape put in. "But after that, I cannot see why he would let you live, considering the prophecy. It would be madness to let you grow into power. And since Quirrell was with you during the Azkaban break-out, and could have taken your blood any time, I think we can safely rule out that it is him." He rolled his eyes as he said it.

"No," Moody growled. "This is a viable hypothesis, and we're not dropping it until we've talked it over _properly_. Hasn't it occurred to you that maybe he _did_ take the kid's blood, and just Obliviated him afterwards, hmm? As far as I know, we don't _know_ how quickly it needs to be used. If he's not in a hurry, he could be finishing off whatever business he has. Maybe he's trying to get the Stone before doing the ritual, and just keeping Bellatrix around as a _backup_."

Harry's mind was having some trouble processing it all. He filed "the Stone" away for later consideration, made a firm mental note to ask more details about the return-to-life ritual that required his blood, and returned to the previous point.

"Excuse me." If they were _actually_ considering, _for real_, whether _Quirrell_ might be _Voldemort_, there were some tests to do. And Moody did seem more sane than most wizards, even if his sanity might be reserved for a rather limited area. "Mr. Moody, you seem like an intelligent man. What is your opinion of You-Know-Who's cunning?"

Moody rolled his eyes. "Bloody impossible," he spat. "We never saw through any of his plots until it was too late. And half of them we _still_ haven't solved."

"Mr Potter solved the one with the Dark Mark today," Severus Snape volunteered. "But I would agree with the point. Potter, you may have seen something of the Headmaster's plots. They are difficult to see through, because they are _complicated_. The Dark Lord's plots are nothing like that. Most of them, in fact, revel in their simplicity. But they are just deceptive enough that we never see through them in time."

"And he _always_ got us thinking exactly what he wanted us to think. You'd think we'd get used to that, but even when we thought we knew what he wanted us to think, we'd still ended up drawing the wrong conclusion."

Harry's heart sunk. That sounded a lot like _always one level higher than you_.

"Not _always_," Snape volunteered. He snorted. "We never did figure out what he wanted us to conclude from the Animagus Potion in Bellatrix's cell."

"The what, sorry?" Harry asked. He was not aware of any Animagus Potion in Bellatrix's cell.

"It was how they broke her out," Professor Snape answered. "She became an animagus, so the Dementors could not see her as easily. But the potion was left, hidden, in her cell. We still haven't managed to come up with any reason why he'd do that. We were probably meant to conclude something from it, but we have no idea _what_."

Professor McGonagall smiled weakly. "The only thing we concluded was that it wasn't you who took her out. And I _do_ apologize that we suspected you even for a moment."

Harry sunk deeply into his chair. _Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap._ That was, of course, exactly what Quirrell had wanted them to conclude.

Suddenly adrenaline shot through him as his brain registered that the tip of Moody's wand was now placed against the underside of his jaw.

"What are you thinking, lad? You know something you're not saying."

He _really_ needed to work on his pokerface, or at least on not letting any turmoil in his mind affect the way he responded. "I... I..." He needed to think this through, calculate the probability that Quirrell was _actually_ the supposedly long-dead Dark Lord who had killed his parents before revealing anything. But any moment's hesitation would give something away to Moody, who wasn't stupid. What could he... ah, yes. "I think you drew exactly the conclusion he wanted you to. He probably _didn't_ use an Animagus potion to take her out."

Professor McGonagall's eyes widened. Professor Snape stared at him for a moment before looking away.

"Or that's just what he _wants_ you to think," Moody pointed out, slowly drawing back his wand but still keeping it pointed in Harry's general direction.

"Does the Dark Lord _really_ use plots with that many levels of meta –"

"Yes," said Moody and Severus.

_Crap._

If the Dark Lord was _Quirrell-level intelligent_, then (1) it significantly raised the chance that he and Quirrell were the same person, and (2) there was no way Harry could match him.

"However that may be," Professor McGonagall said firmly. "I think we can safely say that Quirrell is not Voldemort." Her voice trembled only a little as she said the name. "He was with Harry during the break-out, and unconscious afterwards so couldn't have gone back in time. Right?" She added in a pleading tone.

"Well, Mr. Potter?" Mad-Eye asked sharply.

"I... He may have been out of my sight for a bit." That was certainly true. He really didn't dare say more, or give Quirrell an alibi if it was actually plausible that he was in fact Lord Voldemort. If that was the case, he'd have to confess, no question. But he needed to think about it first. And he didn't want to say anything incriminating in the presence of the vigilant ex-Auror Moody, who might just arrest him on the spot.

"Then if he has a Time-Turner, he could have gone to Azkaban and returned without you ever knowing it. And that would explain the Time-Paradox Albus was talking about."

But if _Quirrell_ was Voldemort... why _had_ he failed? There was no way _Quirrell_ would fail to overthrow the government if he set his mind to it, Dumbledore just wasn't any kind of match for him.

"Tell me, Mr. Moody –" Harry's mouth was dry, but he needed to know the man's opinion. Even if the chance was small that he'd ever thought about it, Moody seemed the only one in the room able to think outside the box. "What do you think was You-Know-Who's ulterior motive?"

"_What?_" Professor McGonagall exclaimed.

"I _know_ Professor Quirrell." _Or I think I do, anyway..._ "If _he_, or someone as smart as he, was trying to take over control of Magical Britain... I'm sorry, I know it's harsh, but I just can't see Professor Dumbledore being a match for him. And if we are actually assuming that You-Know-Who has _that_ level of intelligence in addition to _at least_ that much power... well, if I saw Professor Quirrell _failing_ to take over the Ministry, I would conclude that he was trying to achieve something else entirely."

Much to his credit, Mr. Moody ignored McGonagall's frantic spluttering and Snape's impatient snort and actually thought about the question for a minute.

"I don't know about Albus Dumbledore not being a match for your Professor, lad," he finally said, "But it's a good question all the same. I must confess I hadn't considered it." He took a draught from his hipflask, and barked a short laugh. "So much for constant vigilance, eh? But to answer your question, I don't know. If he has an ulterior motive, we'd have to know what he _wants_, and assume that it's _not_ just to rule Britain with an iron fist. The _obvious_ thought is that he's going for world domination, of course, but...'

"... that might be a little too obvious," Harry finished.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your little paranoia exchange," Snape drawled, "but are we still going from the assumption that Quirrell is Monroe? It doesn't make much sense that the Dark Lord and his own enemy would be the same person."

Harry and Moody looked at each other. They both saw the obvious in the same instant.

"... does it?" Snape asked.

"I think –" Harry swallowed. "I think I would like to visit the bathroom for a bit."

The ex-Auror narrowed his eyes. "Why, all of a sudden?"

Harry didn't think he'd get an urgent need past this attentive man, so he just shrugged. "I fear we may be getting carried away just a little here, and I want a few private moments to consider for myself how likely this line of reasoning _actually_ is. Plus, I really do need to use the bathroom."

"Perhaps we should move, too," Professor McGonagall suggested. "Dinner will be over by now, and I expect the Headmaster will soon want his chambers back. Shall we reconvene in my office in five minutes?"

Moody fixed Harry with a glare of one black and one horrid blue eye. "You're hiding something, aren't you, kid?"

Harry normally would have come up with a perfectly innocent answer that would be just as it should be if he had nothing to hide. He _should_ have. But he was feeling a bit _unsettled_, to put it mildly, so he just shrugged, opened the door, and stepped onto the spiraling staircase alone.

* * *

_Think_, he told himself. _Think, think, think._

Had they actually stumbled upon the right hypothesis?

_It is plausible,_ said Ravenclaw. _But that doesn't necessarily mean that it's true._

_Mr. Moody and Professor Snape are quite convinced of Voldemort's evil genius,_ Slytherin pointed out. _They may be wizards, with all the usual fallacies, but they are not stupid. They seemed to have experienced plots of a level that _would_ match an intellect like the Defense Professor's. And now we have the answer as to why an intelligent Voldemort would fail._

The Defense Professor had told him he hadn't even bothered keeping count of how many people he was. If he was a Dark Wizard, he would definitely be the kind who changed personalities like other people change clothes. Certainly he could step into the shoes of the Dark Lord Voldemort, an evil but ultimately ineffective terrorist bent on rulership and the extermination of Muggleborns. Indeed, Quirrell had told Harry _exactly_ how to play that role, which struck him as somewhat suspicious, now that he thought about it.

But aside from the role of Lord Voldemort, what if he had _also_ heard about a missing member of a Noble House, and stepped into the shoes of David Monroe? It wouldn't have been at all hard to have the other members of the house murdered by "Voldemort". And that action had both benefited Voldemort, whose name was made, and Monroe, who became the sole heir to his Noble House.

_And thus, a cliched hero was born,_ Slytherin concluded calmly. _One whom everyone would follow in his "fight" against the Dark Wizard that threatened their lives._

_But they didn't,_ Gryffindor observed. _That's what Moody said. Monroe, Crouch, Bones, and Longbottom were the only ones to act. The others were afraid to step up.  
_

_Not afraid,_ Ravenclaw said. _Bystander Apathy. They must have known that Monroe's failure would end badly for themselves. They had far more to lose from _not_ acting than they had to fear from following Monroe. But they all hoped that someone else would solve the problems._

_So _Professor Quirrell_ misestimated other people?" Hufflepuff spoke up disbelievingly. You are saying that Quirrell was not pessimistic enough about other people's readiness to act?_

_This was twenty years ago,_ Ravenclaw pointed out. _People change._

_Or this is the reason _why_ he's cynical._ Slytherin suggested.

If Monroe's goal had been to get people to accept a light mark, to get the entire country to follow him willingly rather than getting power by force, he must have come to realize soon enough that he wasn't going to succeed.

And so, Monroe had disappeared, and the Dark Lord had carried on.

_But even then, he still failed to overthrow the government,_ Ravenclaw pointed out. _That must have been deliberate. To what purpose?_

Harry massaged his head. This answer came up blank. But that didn't mean the line of reasoning was necessarily flawed. It might just mean that there was something he hadn't yet thought of. Something that could take a clever villain two _years_ to come up with. A smart enemy could make a plot that you wouldn't expect, and wouldn't understand afterwards. Like the Aurors still didn't understand how or why Bellatrix Black had been saved; they only had a false conclusion to go on (although, now that Harry thought about it, if Quirrell was indeed the same person as Voldemort, the conclusion might not be _that_ incorrect). But it was entirely possible that there was a very good explanation for why a smart Voldemort had failed to overthrow the government, and that Harry just wasn't clever enough to see it.

It was amazing how much more obvious that was, now that he considered the possibility of _Professor Quirrell_ being the evil genius.

_But that is not certain,_ the part of Hufflepuff piped up that didn't like thinking badly of Professor Quirrell. _Perhaps not even likely. __I mean, how much do we really have to go on, here? It was just an idea. Mad-Eye Moody might take the hypothesis seriously, but judging by the others' reaction, he often takes outlandish theories seriously. Could it be that we're just jumping to conclusions?_

_True,_ Slytherin observed. _It is also entirely possible that Monroe and Voldemort were just working together, but are different individuals.  
_

_Or everything is as it seems_, Hufflepuff suggested. _He could just be a good man, who helped pull this country through the first years of the war._

_I agree that we need more data,_ Ravenclaw conceded. _What do we know that we could base our view on?_

There was the Azkaban breakout, of which Harry knew more than anyone else. Harry's mysterious feeling of Doom when the Defense Professor got too near, which he had to admit made a lot more sense if the Professor was indeed his destined enemy. Everything Quirrell had ever said – he might have been playing a role, but wouldn't there still have been _some_ unguarded moments where he let parts of his real self shine through? There was the prophecy, which he'd still have to get Dumbledore to let him hear for himself, and his mysterious dark side. Not to mention the Dark Lord's mysterious death ten years ago, which seemed like a highly anomalous and probably important event. There was the view which Snape and McGonagall and Dumbledore and Moody held about Voldemort. And there was the attack on Draco and Hermione, which the Defence Professor _had_ played a role in – indeed, if he had perpetrated it, then Draco had never been meant to die at all – but for which there were also other suspects, such as Dumbledore or Snape.

He sighed, finished his business in the bathroom, and stumbled over to Professor McGonagall's office. They'd be waiting for him.

* * *

"... health condition is getting worse," Professor McGonagall was saying, as Harry opened the door and slipped into the office. "It is by no means certain that it will be any ill-doing on his part which prevents us from renewing his employment."

"And you don't think that condition suspicous?" Moody asked darkly. "Amelia thinks he stepped into the path of a high-level curse, but that sounds little _optimistic_ to me. She's believing what she _wants_ to think."

"Amelia Bones strikes me as a sensible Head of the DMLE," Professor McGonagall said coldly. "And you have no proof that it is anything dark like you're suggesting."

"That man might as well be wearing a sign saying 'Dark Wizard' in glowing green letters over his head! And he's teaching his students the killing curse, for Merlin's sake!"

"Um, excuse me," Harry asked. He had taken the last empty chair and sat down on its arm. "But why is that bad, exactly? He _does_ make it clear we're never to use the unforgivable curses against humans. And a Cutting Hex can kill someone too. So why's it any better to use a Reducto instead of Avada Kedav-"

"Shut your mouth!" Moody said sharply. "Someone might take it the wrong way, your saying that incantation. You _look_ too young to cast it, but there's such a thing as Polyjuice. And to answer your question, boy, there's two reasons why that spell's in the blackest book. The first is that the Killing Curse strikes directly at the soul, and it'll just keep going until it hits one. Straight through shields. Straight through _walls_. There's a _reason_ why even Aurors fighting Death Eaters weren't allowed to use it before the Monroe Act."

"Ah," said Harry. "That does seem like an excellent reason to ban –"

"I'm not finished, son. The second reason is that the Killing Curse doesn't _just_ take a powerful bit of magic. You've got to _mean_ it. You've got to _want_ someone dead, and not for the greater good, either. When I used it for the first time, to kill Gerald Grice, I knew that it wouldn't bring back Blair Roche, or Nathan Rehfuss, or David Capito. It wasn't for justice, or to stop him doing what he had done again. _I wanted him dead._ You understand now, lad? You don't have to be a Dark Wizard to use that spell – but you can't be Albus Dumbledore, either. And if you're arrested for killing with it, there's no possible defense."

"I... see," murmured the Boy-Who-Lived. _You can't want the person dead as an instrumental value on the way to some positive future consequence, you can't cast it if you believe it's a necessary evil, you have to actually want them dead for the sake of being dead, as a terminal value in your utility function._ "A magically embodied preference for death over life, striking within the plane of pure life force... that does sound like a difficult spell to block."

"Not difficult," Moody snapped. "_Impossible._"

Harry nodded gravely. "But David Monroe – or whoever – used the Killing Curse against a couple of Death Eaters even _before_ they wiped out his family. Does that mean he already had to hate them? Like, the martial arts story was probably true?"

Moody shook his head slightly. "One of the dark truths of the Killing Curse, son, is that once you've cast it the first time, it doesn't take much hate to do it again."

"It damages the mind?"

Again Moody shook his head. "No. It's the killing that does that. Murder tears the soul – but that's just the same if it's a Cutting Hex. The Killing Curse doesn't crack your soul. It just takes a cracked soul to cast." If there was a sad expression on the scarred face, it could not be read. "But that doesn't tell us much about Monroe. The ones like Dumbledore who'll never be able to cast the Curse all their lives, because they never crack no matter what – they're the rare ones, very rare. It only takes a little cracking."

There was a strange heavy feeling in Harry's chest. He'd wondered what exactly it had meant, that Lily Potter had tried to cast the Killing Curse at Lord Voldemort with her last breath. But surely it was forgiveable, it was _right_ and _proper_ for a mother to hate the Dark Wizard who was coming to kill her baby, mocking her for how she couldn't stop him. There was something wrong with you as a parent if you _couldn't_ cast Avada Kedavra, in that situation. And no other spell could've gone past the Dark Lord's shields; you'd have to at least _try_ to hate the Dark Lord enough to want him dead for the sake of being dead, if that was the only way to save your baby.

_It only takes a little cracking..._

"Enough," said Professor McGonagall. "I admit that there are certain... bad signs. But there are also some _really good signs_, if he actually is this Monroe person. We know that Monroe approved of the killing curse in certain situations, so that does seem to fit. Even if his condition was caused by... a dark ritual gone wrong or something like that, I'd take it, if the students learn to defend themselves. Don't you understand how important that is? We cannot just afford to get rid of him on the basis of some far-fetched theory!"

Moody shrugged, and turned back to Harry. "Before going on, I'd like to ask Mr. Potter here whether he's made up his mind to tell us yet, whatever it is he's hiding." He fixed Harry with a stare. "And don't try to pretend you're not hiding anything, it won't work."

Harry quickly searched his brain for something to say. In truth, he probably _should_ tell them all about the Azkaban breakout, tell them _now_, so they could reason with full information. But the rules of cooperative discourse generally assumed that you weren't in risk of getting arrested and hauled off to a torture house by your conversation partners if you spoke your mind, and Moody was probably quite ready to _do_ that if Harry explained his part in Bellatrix Black's escape, he _wasn't_ like Dumbledore who'd accept almost anything from his pet hero. He also could hardly phrase alternative suspicions about Dumbledore or Snape in present company. But there _was_ one thing to say, which he _did_ have an excuse for not mentioning before...

He let his face drop. "Professor McGonagall... I'm really sorry, I know it's not the Ides of May yet, but this could be _really_ important..." And that was even true.

Professor McGonagall just looked resigned. "I suppose it might be."

Harry took a deep breath. "Every time the Defense Professor and I come too close to each other, I get this mysterious sense of Doom. He feels it too, but he says it is _my_ doom that flares. Not sure I believe him, though," he quickly added, as he saw Moody's look. He _didn't_ add what happened the last time their magics interacted, because Quirrell had stopped the potential magical explosion by turning into an unregistered Animagus, which would definitely get _him_ dragged off to Azkaban, and Harry didn't want that. Even if Quirrell was indeed Voldemort, he decided, he didn't deserve Azkaban. No one did.

_Are you sure about that?_ his Slytherin side whispered. _After what he did do Bellatrix Black? And what he might have done to Hermione? Don't you remember how you felt during the trial?_

_I am sure,_ Harry answered himself. _No one should ever have to go there, no matter what. It might be justice, in some cases, but it still wouldn't be _right.

"A Mysterious Feeling of Doom," Moody repeated slowly. "And no hints as to its meaning? Did you tell anyone else?"

Harry shook his head.

Moody glared at McGonagall. "You knew. And you told him _not to say anything_? Do you _want_ all your students to die or be recruited for Voldemort's armies?"

"I... Well..." McGonagall seemed lost for words. Harry interrupted.

"Sorry, but do _you_ know what it means?"

"No, but here's a hint, son. How many people do you have a _reason_ to have a mysterious dark connection with? Survive anyone else's killing curse recently?"

Harry had to concede that this was a fair point. No one would have an idea what a botched killing curse could do, since it had never failed before. Or, as his Ravenclaw side was quick to point out, the causal relation could be the other way around. If Quirrell _was_ Voldemort, and they'd _already_ had intertwined magics for some mysterious reason that might be related to the prophecy or to something else, then Voldemort's killing curse _would_ probably have caused strange effects...

"I agree that matters do not look good for our Defense Professor," Snape cut in. "But there is an alternative we should consider. The Dark Lord saw both Harry and Monroe as his enemies. They might have been victim to the same dark curse." He turned to Harry. "You say you remember the night your parents died. Do you happen to remember what came afterwards? Did he _immediately_ cast the killing curse on you?"

"I don't remember more than his eyes, looking at me..." Harry shuddered as he recalled the two blazing, crimson eyes.

"Well, I can say one thing," Moody decided. " Albus can just suck up his promise, we're going to look into that Defense Professor _tonight_. He _did_ come back to the castle when Amelia released him this afternoon, right?"

"Yes," Harry confirmed. "He was at dinner." He _had_ been planning to drop back to 7pm after this meeting to _finally_ ask Professor Quirrell for advice on getting Hermione out of Azkaban, but that suddenly didn't seem like such a good idea anymore.

"But..." Professor McGonagall started.

"Merlin damn it, woman! When are you going to be willing to get rid of him? When the next student gets attacked? Will it be enough when the Granger girl dies?"

That hit her hard, Harry saw. But she recovered her composure quickly, and said: "I was merely going to suggest that you be _careful_. If he is _not_ Voldemort, then you should not hurt him. We _cannot_ afford to get rid of him unless we _absolutely_ must, Alastor!"

"That is true," Harry agreed. "Even not taking his lessons into account, getting rid of him wouldn't be a free action. He saved my life twice –"

_"What?"_ demanded Moody. "When? How?"

"Once when he knocked down a bunch of witches who were summoning me toward the ground, once when he figured out that the Dementor was draining me through my wand. And if Professor Quirrell wasn't the one who set up Draco Malfoy in the first place, then he saved Draco Malfoy's life, and things would be a lot worse if he hadn't. If the Defense Professor isn't behind it all – he's not someone we can afford to just get rid of."

"You don't believe he's Voldie, then?"

"I... How could I _know_ that either way? I mean, I know Quirrell better than any of you, he's been my Mentor for most of the year, but I hardly know anything about You-Know-Who. And the world _doesn't_ look the way you'd expect it to look if Quirrell was an evil psychopath bent on conquering magical Britain or the entire world. But then, what I hear about You-know-who just seems so _inconsistent_, and if it's really _Quirrell_ we have to suspect, then he could be planning almost anything... honestly, I am feeling a bit out of my depth with all this."

"Get used to it, boy," Moody hissed. "That's how you'll always feel with Voldy."

"Noted."

"Regardless," Snape said. "We cannot act too hastily. If you surmise correctly, and he is the Dark Lord, then this is the one opportunity where you know where he is, without his allies by his side, and without the ability to Disapparate. He has essentially put himself right under Albus Dumbledore's power, but it will still take _time_, to plan a move that uses this situation. And if he _isn't_ the Dark Lord, then the Headmaster should ideally not be seen to be involved, as a breach of his promise would likely offend Quirrell more than being a suspect." He looked at Harry for confirmation, who nodded. Quirrell would find it only natural that they would suspect him, although he might still act indignified and milk it for all its worth if the suspicions proved incorrect.

"Don't try anything tonight, or tomorrow," Professor McGonagall begged. "The school is full of children, and if the Defence Professor really _is_ Lord Voldemort, then it could get dangerous. We can't have a battle in these walls! At _least_ wait until Saturday, when most of the students are gone for the holidays."

"Fine," Moody bit. "But I am talking to Albus tonight. I do wonder whether he still thinks that glaringly naive promise was a good idea if it turns out he swore Voldemort into the Hogwarts wards."

* * *

-o-o-o-o-o-

* * *

**Author's Note:** since the last update, it seems someone has posted about this spinoff on the HPMOR reddit. Thank you! It had honestly not occurred to me to do that. :)

To answer some questions that have been brought up...

_* _Harry's idea to use the Dementor is HPMoR canon (the original chapter 81); there, however, his first plan ends up working (because he sees a possibility he misses here), so he does not execute this one. The reason he tells people what he's planning to do first is to set up expectations, which may or may not be needed to make the Dementor obey.

* In HPMoR (and therefore also here), the Aurors' Patronuses in the Azkaban arc did not react to the presence of the True Patronus in Azkaban except for two times, when it went out of control – so it shouldn't give a problem when Hermione is casting it (unless she lets it go out of control of course, which is why the otter told her to instantly drop her wand when that happens).

* Harry leaves a rather large security hole in chapter 88: yes, yes, he does. There's no real way to train new Patronus casters without significant risks – that's why he didn't even dare tell Hermione before. But, after the phoenix, he's decided it's worth it. You can wait forever for an opportunity that might never come, or just grasp what you have and deal with the consequences when it all goes to hell.


	10. Chapter 90: Updating Beliefs, Pt 2

**CHAPTER 90: UPDATING BELIEFS, PT 2**

* * *

There was one flaw with the plan to wait until the Easter Holidays before trying to expose Quirrell. One glaringly obvious flaw that Harry really should have thought about last night.

There was no getting around facing Quirrell today.

It was Friday, April 10th, of 1992, and Harry was sitting in the last session of the day. Defense Against the Dark Arts.

He _had_ considered contriving a sickness. McGonagall would probably even help him, if he pointed out the likelihood of the Defense Professor taking one look at him and deriving everything Harry was thinking of without even using Legilimency. Or Professor Snape could have contrived a Potions accident that would require him to be sent off to St Mungo's. But none of those things were very _likely_ for a student who'd been in apparently perfect health yesterday and brewing nothing more exciting than a _potion of cold resistance_, so if he _did_ get incapacitated, then Quirrell might derive what it meant anyway. Besides, it would take some fairly serious harm to stop Quirrell from visiting him.

So, instead, he had spent most of Potions class thinking about other plausible excuses why he would not want to talk to Quirrell about what had happened to Hermione. There were some surprisingly good reasons, he had realized, which he really ought to have figured out even without a motive to hide his real thoughts from the Defense Professor.

At the end of class, just as Harry had expected, Quirrell held him back, and told him to follow him to his office. As he trailed after the Defense Professor, Harry cleared his mind and, like an Occlumency barrier, turned into a version of Harry who hadn't had yesterday's disturbing conversation.

"I was rather put out when I heard about the trial, Mr. Potter," the Defense Professor spoke, once they had arrived in his office and he had cast all the usual privacy charms. "It appears that you still have not learned how to lose."

"I am well aware that what I did was stupid," Harry said coldly. "But losing is for _points_, not _people_."

Quirrell slammed his hand hard on his desk. "_Pretending_ to lose is for everything! You should have gritted your teeth and pretended to be upset, but accept the situation. And then get Granger out _afterwards_, before they brought her to Azkaban! But instead, you drew attention to yourself. First you made yourself _ridiculous_ by threatening Malfoy with the enmity of House Potter. And worse than that, you showed to the world that you're just a pathetic little kid, and Lord Malfoy lost his fear of you."

Harry nodded silent agreement. Not being a _complete_ idiot, he'd eventually worked out who Lucius Malfoy had thought he was talking to in front of the Wizengamot. And the Dark Lord Voldemort would certainly never promise his enmity in a deadly voice, he'd just say something that would _actually_ feel like a threat to Lucius (probably without being understandable to other people in the room, Voldemort _did_ probably know things about Lucius most people didn't).

"And _then_," Quirrell bitterly continued. "When your _decent_ plan failed, you didn't try to negotiate, or execute a plan that could win the respect of Britain's most powerful. No, you made an insane threat. What would you have done if you had actually been required to execute it? Murder the majority of the largest political body of Britain? Merlin damn it, boy! I cannot think of a stupider way to start your career as a Dark Lord! Dumbledore would have killed you straight afterwards, had you let _him_ live. Even Professor McGonagall would likely have killed you for that! You are only a child, you don't have the magic to _stop_ them from doing so if you give them sufficient justification."

"I know," Harry murmured. Mostly, he remembered those dark moments in the ancient halls of the Wizengamot in terms of shame, but he hadn't been able to stop himself from considering what would have happened if Hermione _hadn't_ spoken up. None of the likely outcomes were good. There were some _very good reasons_ why his dark side had moved on to alternative ideas.

The Defense Professor sat down, still glaring angrily at Harry. "And now, it's going to follow you. If Granger escapes from Azkaban, they'll suspect you, because you drew attention to yourself. If it ever becomes public that you have the power to control Dementors, they will understand that you were serious. Those who believe themselves to be pure of heart will never willingly follow you anymore. How will you lead Magical Britain then, hmmm? And if you _don't_ show them, everyone will continue to think that you're an idiot! Even when you grow older, they'll remember you as a stupid child, and no matter how powerful you grow, it'll be repeated in whispers what a moron you were when you were younger. Have you considered what you're going to do about that?"

_No._ He'd been thinking of other things, such as phoenixes, taking down Azkaban, Who-Framed-Hermione-Granger and How-To-Free-Hermione-Granger. Even if he _had_ thought about it (which he probably should have), Harry wasn't quite sure that he _wanted_ to lead Magical Britain. But Quirrell obviously didn't want to hear about that. "I could make it seem like I was trying to get everyone to write me off as a stupid kid, so they won't see it coming when I strike?"

Quirrell waved a hand irritably. "Won't work. It _might_ work for those who are playing the game on level 3 and think you're a level 2 player, but not everyone's a Slytherin. _Most_ people will just continue thinking you were a stupid kid even after hearing that explanation. And if you ever show your particular... ah... _prowess_ with Dementors, it'll be hard to fool them into thinking you were just bluffing, after using _that_ excuse."

"Point taken. So what would you suggest I do, then?"

The Defense Professor fixed him with a glare. "I am not sure you _deserve_ my advice, Mr. Potter. But very well." He poured two cups of tea, and pushed one towards Harry. "Your bluff was for the Headmaster," he said quietly. "Who knew that you were indeed _capable_ of doing what you said, and who might have allowed you to spend your money as you desired, if he feared you spoke true. If people wonder what you would have done if he had called your bluff, you will say that you would have canceled everyone's Patronuses to prove the point, but done nothing further, and then used that position to bargain with Dumbledore – or Malfoy, for that matter, he might have been more open to negotiation if it was only your Patronus standing between him and a Dementor. This strategy will only work if you can additionally prove that you can, in fact, control Dementors and other people's Patronuses though, preferably in some innocent and _good_ way. I do hope that's an option." He took a sip. "Justify yourself like this, and you might not lose _too_ much prestige from your foolishness on Monday. The clever ones will still see all the flaws in that plan, but it'll be an acceptable error, for a first-year child."

"Thank you," Harry said quietly. He wasn't quite sure that there really was a good way to do this – canceling other people's Patronuses was _dangerous_, and might be permanently harmful to them – but perhaps it could work _after_ he destroyed all Dementors in the world.

"That being settled," Quirrell said coldly. "I must say I am surprised at you, Mr. Potter. I would have expected you to come to me for advice the moment I returned. Can I conclude that you suspect me?"

Well yes. That was the only reasonable conclusion for that particular observation. Harry _had_, in fact, been waiting to pounce on his mentor the moment he returned. Would have done so instantly on seeing him at dinner yesterday, to hell with his meeting with Dumbledore, if he hadn't known about Hermione's relative safety. He could afford a little more delay than he had initially planned because the Aurors seemed to be protecting her – not that he wanted the Defense Professor to know about that quite yet – but even taking this into account, there was no conceivable reason why he wouldn't have begged Quirrell's help the first available instant, unless he _strongly_ suspected the man's involvement. Since he hadn't done that yesterday evening, the only safe solution Harry could take was to adequately justify his suspicion in a way that wouldn't interfere with whatever Moody and Dumbledore were planning, or give anything away about Hermione. And that, preferably, without alienating his mentor, because he _would_ still really like his advice on the situation.

"Ah, so you _do_ believe she is innocent, then?" bit a version of Harry who had agonized for four days over Hermione's fate, and come to some rather disturbing conclusions.

"Do not hold me for an idiot, Mr Potter," Quirrell said sharply. "This murder was well-planned to evade detection both by the wards of Hogwarts and the Headmaster's timely eye – or, indeed, by any Defense that could be _expected_ from the Headmaster, which is very convenient for him. Naturally, in such a thoughtful murder, some innocent would be placed to take the blame." A brief, wry smile crossed the Defense Professor's lips. "Besides, I consider myself a talented teacher, but even I could not teach such murderous intent to a student as obstinate and untalented as Hermione Granger."

"You suspect the Headmaster?"

"He is the obvious suspect, more so even than you might realize. There is an important gathering of the International Confederation of Wizards, next week. The representatives of the Wizarding governments around Europe will come together to make treaties and international laws for the next ten years. It would be the perfect time for Lucius to be torn by grief, and certainly a good time to throw away his game against Dumbledore for the sake of revenge. Note also that if Draco had not survived to testify, then the investigation would surely have taken a lot longer."

"But eventually, it would still have led to Hermione taking the blame," Harry said. "I admit I also came to the conclusion that Dumbledore had a strong motive. But for all that I have seen of him, I find it difficult to believe that he would plot to send any Hogwarts student to Azkaban. Ever."

"Ah," the Defense Professor said softly. "But the _only_ way Dumbledore could escape unscathed from a student dying during his reign as Headmaster, is if he truly could not have seen it coming, or do anything about it. Murder by another student is one of the very few ways that would achieve this. And if he must, in a sufficiently noble cause, sacrifice a student – why, who would he choose, but she who declared herself a heroine?"

That gave Harry some pause. It might just be hindsight bias, but that _did_ seem to concentrate some of that hypotheses's probability mass onto framing Hermione in particular. Similarly, Professor Quirrell _had_ predicted in advance that Dumbledore might target Draco...

_But if it's you behind all of this, Professor, you might have shaped your plans to frame the Headmaster, and taken care to cast suspicion on him in advance._

The concept of 'evidence' had something of a different meaning, when you were dealing with someone who had declared themselves to play the game at 'one level higher than you'.

"You are an obvious suspect too," Harry replied. "As Mr. Moody told me yesterday, the Defense Professor always is. The wards did not give alarm, which points to staff involvement, and the method by which Draco was attacked suggests a substantial amount of cunning, especially since the perpetrator would have needed to select a method that could conceivably have been transparent to a child reading _Hogwarts: a History_. You are powerful enough to have pulled off those Memory Charms, and skilled enough to cover up potential incriminating evidence. I do not know what exact motives you might have had, but you play the game on a sufficiently high level that this is only to be expected."

"I suppose I cannot be offended, as your reasons are sound," the Defense Professor said with a sip of his tea. "And so you have met Mad-Eye Moody? A more sensible man than most amongst Dumbledore's followers, although he _does_ have a tendency to be too paranoid sometimes. He always tends to assume the absolute worst, disregarding more likely scenarios. And while assuming the worst is in general a good approach, it might cause him to miss the _second-worst_ possibility." His eyes gleamed. "How did you find him?"

"Interesting," Harry confessed. "And he didn't try to patronize me at all, which is pretty rare."

"I can believe that," the Defense Professor nodded. "Mad-Eye sorts people by two metrics: threat potential and usefulness, and he's far too suspicious of people to disregard them as a threat just because they're young. But putting that aside, I would like you to tell me, Mr. Potter," he fixed Harry with a penetrating look, "why exactly did you not come to me after that meeting? Did Mad-Eye say something incriminating? It has been a long four days in detention, but I expected to find you eager to discuss with me immediately afterwards. You normally would not let vague suspicions stop you."

"Well," Harry started. "First of all, that meeting yesterday took rather longer than I expected. And second... I figured that it was obvious that you didn't _want_ to save Hermione. If you did, you would have."

"That is an intriguing idea. How do you imagine I could have done that?"

"You didn't go to the trial, for a start. I know you were being detained, but you were a _witness_, having put extra protection on Draco beforehand. You could have persuaded Bones to let you go. If you had gone there and told them what you obviously knew, that Hermione was innocent..."

"Then it would not have made the slightest difference," Quirrell said dryly. "You have seen the idiocy of people, Potter, do you really believe they will listen to _sense_? In truth, I considered it probable that she would not lightly be sent to Azkaban, because she is so young. Drawing attention away from her youth and on to a tale of innocence they would not believe anyway would _hardly_ be helpful. Even Headmaster Dumbledore understood that."

"But you could have gone there, and reacted on what actually _was_ happening, rather than on what you _expected beforehand_. I went there without a plan, and if not for Dumbledore's interference, I could have saved her using Lucius's life debt."

"A plan you could have come up with beforehand, too, without first making an embarrassment of yourself." He smiled dryly. "I do not think the DMLE would have let me go for the pure sake of _witnessing_ the trial. If I went there, I would be expected to _speak_. Which, I believe, would not have been helpful in the slightest. Even with the advantage of hindsight, I doubt I could have done much good, other than perhaps clout you over the head before you could go on to make the _idiotic_ threat you did."

"You could have asked to speak to Malfoy _beforehand_. He hates Dumbledore more than Hermione, if you explained your theory about Dumbledore's motives to him, he might have agreed."

"That would involve telling him about your slipping up and mentioning his promise to Dumbledore. A mistake, I daresay, you would hardly want him to know about. Nor would it have helped much. Malfoy has no advantage to gain in going after Dumbledore, who could just deny his involvement. He would not cancel the trial. Even if he truly did not believe that Miss Granger was guilty, he would seek her destruction anyway, for she humiliated his House on Saturday. Besides, he is hardly beyond suspicion himself."

"You think Lucius Malfoy would have tried to kill his own son?"

"Why not? From Mr. Malfoy's recorded testimony, I gather that you enjoyed some success in changing young Mr. Malfoy's political views. If Lucius Malfoy learned of that earlier... he might have decided that his _former_ heir had become a liability."

"Padma came up with a similar theory," Harry said. "But I don't buy it. Draco is entirely convinced that his father loves him, and there is plenty of evidence pointing in that direction too. Besides, if Lucius set up the whole thing himself, then why did he decline Dumbledore's offer of coming to an agreement about Hermione? Why did he ask an insanely high price to dispense with the blood debt, when he could have known Dumbledore would not let me pay it? He wouldn't actually care that much about throwing Hermione into Azkaban, and he could have gained a large political advantage and got rid of the debt he holds to House Potter, by bargaining to have her wand snapped instead. And that _would_ be sufficient revenge for a mere humiliation, especially with Draco's testimony under Veritaserum that he only lost because he was tired."

"Perhaps," Quirrell said ponderously.

"Getting back to the point," Harry went on. "There's also the matter of you saving Draco. That was a life debt, right there. And Malfoy couldn't have said that you created the circumstances deliberately, not without casting doubt on Hermione's testimony. If we'd both claimed a life debt _together_ and asked for Hermione's life..."

"Life debts are not _personal_, Potter. You can have a life debt to a Noble House, but not to a commoner."

"But you _are_ noble, aren't you?" He might as well use the conversation as a good excuse for polling the man about Monroe.

Quirrell carefully put down his tea. "Amelia mentioned those suspicions to me. I see that she has also spoken to others. Who else is aware of this?"

Harry didn't respond.

Quirrell stood up to face the fireplace, turning his eyes away from Harry. When he spoke again, his voice was less sharp, and more bitter.

"I know the one she was speaking of, of course. David Monroe. The kind of hero anyone would recognize from fairy tales, wielding justice and vengeance like twin wands against his personal nemesis, a Dark Lord who was a threat to far more than just himself." Professor Quirrell gave a soft, bitter laugh. "Do you know, at that time I thought myself already cynical, and yet... well."

The silence stretched, as Harry listened intently.

"In all honesty," said Professor Quirrell, continuing to stare at the fire, "I still don't understand it. They should have known that their lives depended on Monroe's success. And yet it was as if they tried to do everything they could to make his life _unpleasant_. To throw every possible obstacle into his way. I was not naive, Mr. Potter, I wouldn't have expected the power-holders to align themselves with him so quickly – not without something in it for themselves. But their power, too, was threatened; and so I was shocked how they seemed content to step back, and leave all burdens of responsibility to him. They sneered at their benefactor's performance, remarking among themselves how they would do better in his place, though they did not condescend to step forward." Professor Quirrell shook his head as though in bemusement. "And it was the strangest thing – those who served the Dark Lord leapt eagerly to _their_ tasks, and as he grew crueler toward his followers, they followed him all the more. Men fought for the chance to serve _him_, even as those whose lives depended on Monroe made free to render his life difficult... I could not understand it, Mr. Potter." Professor Quirrell's face was lit up by the flickering of the flames, giving an eerie impression. "Perhaps, by taking on himself the curse of action, he removed it from all others? Was that why they felt free to hinder his battle against the Dark Wizard who would have enslaved them all? Believing men would act in their own interest was not cynicism, it turned out, but sheerest optimism; in reality men do not meet so high a standard. Monroe, I daresay, would have been better off fighting his enemy alone, than with such followers at his back. And perhaps, in time, that is exactly what he did."

"I see," Harry said, his mouth dry. It was taking a lot of effort to keep pretending to be a Harry who didn't suspect anything. If the Defense Professor had indeed been both at the same time... he'd just explained why he would have retired Monroe, and continued with Lord Voldemort.

_But alternatively_, the voice of Ravenclaw said in his head, _it might also explain why an intelligent Voldemort did not succeed, with an even more intelligent Monroe working against him behind the scenes._

"I cannot say what happened to that man," Quirrell said, turning around, and stepping back to his chair. His hand was quivering slightly, as it often did. "But I daresay that if, hypothetically, he and I were the same person, I would have some _very good reasons_ for not wanting this identity to be discovered."

"Good enough to let Hermione Granger be eaten by Dementors."

"If you want to put it like that, Mr. Potter, yes. She honestly doesn't mean that much to me." The Defense Professor sat down again. "I do regret the girl's situation. She was a good student in my Defense class, and could have been a valuable ally to you later. But in truth, even if I had claimed to be this noble scion, it would not have helped her much. We cannot _both_ claim the same price for our debt, that is now how the law works."

"Be that as it may..." Harry whispered. "But all this sounds more like _excuses_, not _reasons_, for not making _any sort of actual effort_ to save her."

The Defense Professor smiled. "Why yes, you are quite correct. I chose not to act on half-hearted plans that might have backfired and would have definitely drawn attention to myself, when there was an obvious way to help the girl without any downsides."

"There was?"

"There is. Surely you realize that Miss Granger is not _dead_ yet. If we act quickly, there will still be something left to save. Even supposing she has already stopped eating and drinking, it would take at least two weeks to die in Azkaban."

Harry swallowed at the mental image. He didn't want to tell Quirrell that Hermione _was_ already mostly safe, because that safety was _precarious_, and if it _was_ Quirrell behind the attack, it would be trivial to send a note to the DMLE or to Lucius Malfoy. "What did you have in mind?"

With a blur, the form of the Professor turned into the blue-and-white banded snake.

"_Musst create debt,_" the snake hissed. "_Real debt. Ssave lord'ss life deliberately. Ssay it iss for sson's ssake. Then assk for girl'ss freedom in exchange._"

"_Ssave life from what?_" Harry hissed back.

"_Hiss old masster,_" the snake suggested. "_Meeting next week. Sset up imposstor ass hiss masster. Bringss woman. Claimss power over Wizarding World. Cassts no-apparation sspell. Ssayss your enemy is bad sservant. Torturess him. Then casstss Killing Cursse. You interfere._"

"_Don't like torture! And lotss of other flawss..._"

"_Torture iss only brief, and he desservess it. Bessidess, needed to keep ambiguouss whether he sserved Dark Wizard willingly, and you don't want him ssent to prisson, no? No real flawss. Have thought thiss through._"

"_What if ssomeone cassts Killing Cursse on Dark Wizard? And how do I get there? What if ssaving goes wrong? What if not?_"

"_I am no fool, boy! Choosse time when sschoolmasster absent. Imposstor hass device to move around quickly. Cannot be targeted eassily. Woman too. I will bring you there. Will ssay I wass alerted. Took you back in time. You walk in, with guardian Charm. Protect lord, for hiss sson. I will be there, pussh lord away if it failss. But unlikely._"

"_Time device iss ssecret,_" Harry hissed.

"_Not your problem! Ssituation iss important enough to warrant exception. They will think of ssome excusse._"

"_And then what?_" Despite himself, Harry was intrigued by the plan.

"_You quickly recasst guardian Charm. Dark wizard targetss random bysstander. You ssend guardian to them, sso are unprotected. Dark wizard no fool. He ussess deadly area charm on you. Too sstrong for your sshields, too broad to dodge. You resspond with sstunning charm._"

"_Sstunning? Would not even get passt his sshields!_"

"_Dark Wizard never had sshields. Too powerful to need them. But not the point. You musst _catch_ hiss sspell. I have dark wizard'ss wand, woman ssaid where sshe hid it. You ssaid before that your wand sshares coress with dark wizard'ss. I have ssince looked up what that doess. If sspellss meet... sspectacular effect. You sstop him from cassting or moving. Then ssomeone elsse can casst Killing Cursse. I will. Explossion. He diess. I die, sso all credit goess to you. Of coursse, both really ssurvive._"

"_But... Then you cannot teach uss anymore!_"

"_Wass not long left anyway. Mosstly done. Will leave lessson plan behind, too. Sstudentss can sself-sstudy, if wissh._"

It was a lot to take in. Hell, it would be a _huge_ operation.

"_Would ssurely take too long to sset up?_"

"_Preparationss already in place."_ There was a content sort of feeling in that hiss. _"I told you sso before. I expected you to losse patience with imprissonment ssoon enough. Plan will give you freedom. And power. You will be ssavior."_ The snaked hissed a strange sort of snake-chuckle. _"Sso only needed a few adaptationss. Can execute in three dayss if needed. Sspend time practissing sspell capture and blocking Killing Cursse."_

"_Musst think..._"

Creating a real debt from Lucius to him would be a good solution, at least if there was no way he could be suspected of having engineered the whole thing. It would be better than giving money to a man who was guaranteed to use at least part of it in ways Harry did not approve of, certainly better than negotiating a lower punishment for Hermione, and probably more feasible than proving her innocence. It was just that it would be _really bloody dangerous_, ethically questionable, and would have some side effects regarding the public's expectations with respect to Voldemort. It was almost certain that Quirrell had his own ulterior motives with this plan, too.

_"Why usse masster, not ssome other threat? Sseemss far-fetched. Ssurely other planss would be eassier?"_

The snake made a strange movement, that might perhaps be interpreted as a the serpentine version of a shrug. _"Ass ssaid, preparationss already in place. Therefore quicker than other planss. But ssmall adaptationss posssible. Maybe just have woman and other sservant attack? Less threatening, and will raisse different expectationss, but could work, if you prefer. Could leave ambiguouss whether their masster iss involved. Explanationss are eassy to change, just not overall plan. __We have little time, before girl goess inssane. And meeting iss perfect moment._"

Some part of Harry admired the way the Defense Professor pushed him into a corner. The Professor probably did not know that there was a way Harry could have helped Hermione without taking her out, something McGonagall or Dumbledore would never have agreed to – he _might_ have derived that the cloak had shielded Bellatrix from the Dementors while he was unconscious, but he wouldn't know _why_, and it was a further leap to assume that it would work even without Harry's presence. And if Hermione was actually in real trouble in Azkaban, suffering constantly, getting closer to death each passing day... then he would have done it. Even taking into account the torturing and the risks inherent in the plan, even if he suspected that the Defense Professor might have set up this scenario just to persuade him to go along with the plan...

_But if he has, then what is his motive?_ asked Slytherin. _He seems to be willing to write Voldemort out of the plot, so it cannot be to persuade Dumbledore that Voldemort is gone or returned. So what would be achieved by following this plan _besides_ creating a debt to Lucius Malfoy?_

_It would allow us to make up with the Malfoy family,_ Ravenclaw promptly volunteered. _At least Draco would appreciate his father being saved. Also, it would put us in the spotlight as a miracle worker who can defeat dark wizards with _vastly_ more power._

_But how is that helping _him_?_ Slytherin shot back.

_He seems to want to make us powerful..._ Ravenclaw supplied thoughtfully. _To what purpose, I don't know. But that fits the explanation that he broke out Bellatrix Black to get us access to Slytherin's lost magic._

_Of which he would profit, too,_ Slytherin pointed out. _But I agree that his overall actions and statements seem consistent with his wanting to make us more powerful. __Should we do it?_

_What?_ Gryffindor and Hufflepuff yelled.

_Hear me out. Increasing our popularity and political sway is highly desirable, and might help to set plans in motion to clear up the messes in government, like Azkaban. Lucius was a Death Eater, and has certainly contributed to torture and murder, not to mention sending a child to Azkaban just this week – a short round of torture is arguably a fair punishment, or rather, far less than he deserves, since it is unlikely that he will ever be sentenced for his crimes. And it _will_ help Hermione._

_The plan is risky, though,_ Ravenclaw pointed out.

_More risky than leaving Hermione in Azkaban, where any number of circumstances could cause a thorough search of her cell, and the discovery that she has a wand and invisibility cloak?_ Slytherin asked. _Once__ that happens, _we_ might not get into too much trouble, but at the very minimum Hermione will no longer be protected. So right now, not acting is also dangerous._

_There have to be other ways of getting her out,_ Gryffindor protested. _Ways that do not require deceit._

_Like what?_ Slytherin asked simply.

Harry swallowed. Even if the Defense Professor had set the entire thing up to push him into a corner, could he afford to refuse it?

_What if this is the only way to save Hermione?_

He didn't know. The idea was starting to seem a lot more appealing, if he could tweak it here and there. But he also had a nagging feeling that – despite the plan's lack of murder – Hermione would probably have told him not to go to such lengths to save her.

_"__You hessitate,_" the snake concluded as the silence stretched._ "__Why? Plan ssolid. Can explain in more detail if wissh. Had four dayss in cusstody to think about ssmallesst detailss._"

_"Need more time,"_ Harry stalled. _"Many thingss to conssider! Can I ssleep on thiss?"_

The snake shook. _"Musst know tonight, to sset everything in motion. If we wait a day, we cannot do the plan for another day. Iss that worth it?"_

Harry frowned. _"Tonight after dinner?"_ Dinner would start in less than an hour, but he would still have six Time-Turned hours to think.

_"That sshould be acceptable,"_ the snake hissed, and turned back into Professor Quirrell.

* * *

In hindsight, Harry would remember that he should have just left. Think over the plan, like he said he would do, and return after dinner. He certainly should not have decided that he needed more information about two of yesterday's open questions to make an informed decision.

"Dumbledore and the others think You-Know-Who did this," Harry volunteered. "I am not so convinced, but it seems... relevant." He didn't say more, of course. If anyone was managing to listen in, they didn't need to know what had passed between him and the snake.

"The Dark Lord?" Quirrell raised an eyebrow. "Why would he have done that?"

"The Headmaster thinks that he sees me as his enemy, and is striking at my allies before they grow strong."

"Does he? And did it occur to him to wonder why an enemy of yours would use the Granger girl to kill _Malfoy_, and not just _you_?"

"No, I don't think it did," Harry shrugged. "But even if it is unlikely that he was involved in any way, I figure it's worth knowing a bit more about him. I know Dumbledore's take on him, and I roughly know Malfoy's, or at least Draco's position... but I would like to know _your_ opinion about him."

"What is there to say?" Quirrell shrugged. "He was extremely powerful, wielding magics most people had never even heard of. He had only a handful of followers, but he used them to perfection to strike fear in everyone's hearts."

"Was he intelligent? They seemed very convinced he was, and suggested him carrying out highly intelligent plots."

"Such as they would not see the difference between someone who gets high grades, or someone who is _actually_ smart. I daresay Dumbledore thinks that Lucius Malfoy is intelligent, and Lucius thinks the same about Dumbledore."

"That is not an answer," Harry observed.

The Defense Professor smiled. "I would say he is no fool, and his plots are certainly worthy of a Slytherin. I would estimate his intelligence over that of those who fought _or_ served him, although in all fairness that is not saying much. However, there is little evidence that he was _more_ than that, and plenty of evidence that he wasn't. Remember, for example, how he not only destroyed the dojo where he would have learned martial arts, but then also left someone alive to tell the tale of this weakness to the world."

_But if it was you, Quirrell, then you already _got_ those martial arts lessons._ It suddenly hit Harry that Quirrell had learned to _pretend_ to lose in a humiliating and painful fashion, about a year before everyone involved in this lesson had been tortured into insanity and killed. And that Quirrell's list of mistakes he would never make as a dark lord contained an item to _never leave the source of your power behind where others can find it_.

"It also occurred to me," Harry said (for he could not be seen to take too much from an idle anecdote), "that if You-Know-Who had _actually_ been smart, he would have won instantly. He wouldn't have pottered around for ten years with standard terrorist tactics, he would cast _Imperius_ on a house elf to sneak transfigured toxin into the cups of his enemies or something like that."

"I daresay he wasn't inclined to use any Muggle knowledge, but otherwise, I concede your point." A grim smile crossed his face. "If I were bored, I could probably take over the Ministry in a few weeks at most."

"So if he was _actually_ intelligent," Harry pushed. He was a bit nervous, but he didn't let it show, as it would be a perfectly reasonable question. "Then he wasn't really trying. So what would his ulterior motive have been?"

The Defense Professor sighed, and stood up.

"I will leave you to figure that out for yourself, Mr. Potter."

"But..."

"Let us dispense with games. We both know what you are really trying to ask. I must confess I had expected you to figure it out earlier, although I certainly did not mind. But very well. I shall update my plans accordingly."

He grabbed some powder from a little box on his desk, and strode towards the fireplace, where green flames erupted as Harry sat stock-still in confusion.

_What._

Quirrell looked around, and nodded formally to Harry.

"Goodbye, Mr. Potter. I daresay we shall meet again." And then he stepped into the fire and disappeared.

The penny dropped.

_Aw crap._


	11. Chapter 91: Updating Beliefs, Aftermath

**CHAPTER 91: UPDATING BELIEFS, PT 3 – AFTERMATH**

* * *

"And so you are telling me that I actually employed Lord Voldemort to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Dumbledore had his head buried in his hands, and was looking very old. Harry thought he had never seen the man look so broken.

"Well... yes," he said. There was no milder way of putting it.

"And I suppose it would be too much to ask that this broke the curse he put on the Defense position in the first place." Dumbledore sighed deeply, pushed himself out behind his desk, and stepped over to a faded shield on the wall. After several incantations, he returned.

"I have fired him," he answered Harry's unasked question. "The wards will no longer permit him access without giving alarm. Hogwarts will be safe again. Safer, at least, than anywhere else in the country."

"Can you bring my parents here?" There hadn't been much time for thinking during his mad run towards the Headmaster's office, just for a few wordless concepts to pop into his head, but that had been enough.

"I do not think that is necessary, although they are of course invited to visit you for the Easter holidays. As I have told you before, Voldemort and his allies have learned, during the last war, not to attack the Order's families."

"Yes, you taught them by burning Narcissa Malfoy to death, right?" Dumbledore didn't respond. Harry continued, not quite managing to keep the edge from his voice: "I am not _in_ the Order of the Phoenix, nor do I think that Quirrell is using his old Death Eaters at the moment – certainly not Malfoy, at any rate. Besides... I think I might have undone some of that work when I was prepared to pay a hundred thousand Galleons for Hermione Granger's life. He won't be fighting _you_, he will be fighting _me_, and he knows perfectly well that it would affect me a lot if he took my parents. So can we _please_ not go from guesses, and just _keep them safe_?"

Dumbledore sighed. "Very well. I shall send Minerva, Alastor and some others to guard them invisibly, and then bring them here tomorrow to visit you. That, we can do without even giving them any alarm. And while they are here, I can strengthen the protections on them."

"That just seems _nowhere near enough_, Professor!

"How much do you think Voldemort expects to gain from attacking your parents? If he has to fight his way through several members of the Order, it doesn't seem like it would be worth it. If I put my strongest protections on them, which it would take a full day of work to tear through, it also doesn't seem worth it. You _can_ uproot their lives and ask them to stay here while your father loses his job and your mother is terrified – I _know_ she fears magic and would not appreciate being trapped here – but you must ask yourself whether it would be in their best interest to do so."

Harry almost roared in frustration. "Inconveniences don't compare to _dying_! Quirrell is _insanely powerful_. I... I saw him fight an Auror who looked pretty old and very tough, and it was just _no match_. He could take down several of your precious Order members at once while standing on his head with one hand tied behind his back! Bring my parents here _now_, and then we can talk about what else to do with them later."

"Fine, if that is the way it must be." The Phoenix Patronus blazed into existence. "Tell Minerva to take what help she can from the Order, and bring Mr. Potter's parents to Hogwarts immediately. Be quick, but do not give them undue alarm." The Patronus disappeared, and he turned his eyes back to Harry, looking severe. "And now, Mr. Potter, tell me." The usual warmth had gone from his voice. "When did you see the Defense Professor fight an Auror?"

Harry sighed. "I guess at this point it would be completely stupid if I didn't tell you about the Azkaban breakout."

* * *

"So basically," Harry summarized. "Quirrell planned the whole thing, and I screwed it up. But I ended up getting out anyway, learning a lot about myself in the process. And I _do_ think Quirrell probably told the truth, that she was originally innocent, because everything she said matched with what he had told me – at least she _did_ love him, and did not expect to be loved in return. Even if she was never innocent, I'm still glad that she's no longer suffering there, because _no one_ deserves that." He paused for a moment. "On the other hand, this whole thing was a huge mess-up with terrible consequences, and now she will end up serving You-Know-Who again and doing horrible things for him... I'm not so happy about that."

"I see." Dumbledore was frowning, although he no longer looked threatening like he had at the beginning of this talk. "You made a big mistake there, Harry, and I wish you had come to me at the time. Death would have been the merciful way out for Bellatrix, and that much, I could have offered."

"I don't think I would have been happy with that," Harry said, looking at the floor. It _would_ have been the sensible thing to do, but that was just hindsight. And if Bellatrix could have _lived_, not as a slave to some Dark Lord but actually get therapy and be _free_... That would have been worth the other costs.

"At least my understanding of that day is now improved," the Headmaster sighed. "Thank you for that, Mr. Potter."

"Are you going to turn me in?" He didn't _think_ the Headmaster would, but it wouldn't hurt to check.

"No. This crime was Voldemort's, even if he misled you into participating. Besides, we shall need you, now more than ever. I shall speak to Amelia and inform her of matters regarding Quirrell, and I shall say that other magic than the Animagus transformation was used to break out of Azkaban, but leave it at that."

"Professor... I think I should warn you. You think you and the Order have held off You-Know-Who for years. But that's just... he wasn't _fighting_ you, he was _playing_ with you. If he had fought all-out, he would have _won_, if not instantly then at least within the first year. I've known him since September, and I've known you, and I am... absolutely convinced of that, Professor."

Dumbledore frowned, but didn't outright reject the statement. "If that is the case, then what do you propose he _was_ doing?"

"I don't know." Certainly Voldemort's lack of effort made sense in the first two years, when Monroe was gaining prestige and followers from fighting him, but what about the eight years of terror afterwards?

"He is smarter than I am. I don't _know_ what he was doing, he never dropped a hint, or if he did, I didn't understand it. I could make up many random guesses, but it would be like... like the old Greek philosophers saying stuff like 'all is fire'. I'd have no way of knowing that the hypothesis was actually true."

"I am glad that you at least acknowledge Lord Voldemort as a threat now. So let me ask you another question. What was he doing this year? The thing that was hidden in this school is still hidden; if he made an attempt on it, I would have known."

"Are you _sure_ of that?"

"Absolutely. Merlin himself might have broken through the defenses, but even he would not have been able to do so without alarm."

"All right." Harry decided to accept that as plausible for now. So what _else_ could Voldemort, coming to teach at Hogwarts disguised as Professor Quirrel, achieve?

_He said he always wanted to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts,_ Hufflepuff pointed out. _And that might be true. Voldemort applied to the position years ago, which is how it got cursed in the first place._

_It seems unlikely to the extreme,_ his Slytherin side said, _that he would go to the effort of possessing a victim's body and hiding right under Albus Dumbledore's nose just for the pleasure of teaching. There has to have been an ulterior motive._

_So what has happened this year?_ Ravenclaw asked. _Did anything out of the ordinary happen that could be best explained by an evil genius executing some kind of plot?_

And that was the baffling thing. As far as Harry could see, nothing dark had happened this year, except for the Azkaban breakout, which Quirrell could not have been planning from the beginning (as Harry only discovered this particular power in February) and the attack on Draco and Hermione. _That_ had almost certainly been Quirrell, trying to push Harry into following his plan to "defeat Voldemort", and conveniently taking away the two people who caused Harry to think before doing stupid things. He might also have been involved in protecting Hermione and the other heroines, and sending her those messages, but to what purpose? And other than that, what had Quirrell done, or potentially done, other than just teaching? What had he even shown an interest in?

_Me._

"He's been mentoring me," Harry said, his mouth dry, his voice sounding hollow even to himself. "He... had plans for me. He said he wanted me to rule, and every thing he did when interacting with me, publicly and privately, seemed to be pointing in that direction."

"I may have been hanging around with Alastor for too long," the old wizard responded, "but the obvious rebuttal that comes to mind is that he might just want you to think that."

"But what would the point of that be? To stop me from seeking power, because it might be playing into his hands?"

"Perhaps."

Harry shook his head. "There are some things I need to do whether or not there is a Dark Lord I need to fight. And he _knows_ that. He knows perfectly well that I will want to take down Azkaban no matter what – in fact, he made sure of that, by taking me there. He knows me through and through, Professor. It's pointless to conjecture him planning things which involve me acting unlike I normally would."

"But you think he wanted to make his prophesied enemy stronger? To get you to rule, so you will have followers at your back and call to destroy him?"

"Yeah, about that prophecy... Can you please plan to take me to the Department of Mysteries? I _need_ to hear it for myself. It couldn't possibly be a false memory planted by You-Know-Who so everyone would _think_ I was his destined enemy, while really I was just some random kid?"

"There _is_ a prophecy, for I saw the orb float to your parents' hand. And if it said something different, I expect they would have told me. But very well. I shall make plans to let you visit that place."

_Would it take eight years to break into the Department of Mysteries, and insert a fake prophecy?_

"I think I also want to know... what happened the night my parents died? How do we know that he tried to cast the Killing Curse on me?"

The old wizard shrugged helplessly. "It was the one spell he used above all. Why should he use something else?"

"That's _all_? I am known as the one person ever to survive the Killing Curse, and we don't even know for sure whether he in fact cast the Killing Curse on me?"

"No, there is another thing. There is a spell, _priori incantatem_, which forces a wand to give information about the last spell it was used to cast. I cast it on Voldemort's wand, just in case. His last spell was definitely the Killing Curse."

"Wait." Harry's head was buzzing. "You found You-Know-Who's wand?"

"Of course. It was left by his corpse. When Hagrid alerted me that the house was in ruins, I came instantly, and took all three wands. I have destroyed Voldemort's wand afterwards, of course." He didn't mention what had happened to Lily and James's wands, but Harry had a distinct feeling that he already knew.

"The thing is... Bellatrix told me where to find my wand, when she believed I was her master. I thought she had visited the house and taken it from his body."

"If she had, she would hardly have left you alive. But no, no Death Eater has been in your house. Even after their deaths, the Fidelius Charm on the Potters' house was still active. It seems unlikely that Sirius Black also passed the secret to her. Why would he, unless the Dark Lord was planning to take her with him? I have no guess of what she could have meant." **[In case of confusion, see Footnote]**

"He left his real wand with her." Harry was staring into space. "And he took a spare wand himself. He was _planning_ to die, or to leave his wand behind, or for _something_ unusual to happen."

The Headmaster gave him a piercing stare. "What on earth could be his motive for dying? It doesn't seem like the kind of thing he would be overly fond of."

"You are convinced he was already immortal, aren't you? So leaving the burnt husk of his body behind wouldn't hurt him as much as it would most other people. I don't know _why_ he would do that, but that might just mean I'm not creative enough. And in fact, what if he never did cast the Killing Curse on me, but cast it on _himself_? It doesn't make sense that a small baby would be the first to survive the Killing Curse."

"That would require a rather extraordinary amount of self-loathing." There was no twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes, only sadness and exhaustion. "And I can think of several reasons why the Killing Curse might have bounced."

Harry quirked his eyebrows. "Like what? The harmonizing of our magics?"

"That could certainly have caused unexpected problems," the old wizard nodded, "although I have never heard of such an effect and cannot imagine why you would have been born with it. I suspect the reason is more the other way around."

"Would you care to elaborate?"

"I would have preferred to wait longer, but... I know there is little point in treating you as a child." He stood up, and took an ancient-looking book from a shelf. The pages were grayed and brittle, and it shed paperdust as Dumblefore carefully opened it.

"I found this old grimoire in the ruins of an ancient structure of what was once the capital of magical Italy. I have made copies, of course, but with magical books, the original often has a kind of integrity that copying cannot preserve. So too with this one. There is a lot of knowledge contained in its pages, even if most of it is half-faded, but what is most relevant to you is in chapter nine." The pages rustled, and turned themselves towards somewhere around the middle of the book.

"Here," he pointed to the left page, which featured a faded picture of a girl, somewhere between six and fifteen years old, but it was hard to tell, "the author, a werewolf who lived some 900 years ago, describes a child, who seemed to be possessed by a dark wizard that was terrorizing the country at the time. She did his bidding, remembered things that only the dark wizard would know, and even had the same kind of walk, and peculiar facial expressions. Sometimes, very rarely, the child acted differently, more child-like, and did not remember what it had been doing. The author says he believes that there were two spirits in the child, one the original, and one the possessor.

"The interesting thing, the _extremely_ interesting thing, was that the dark wizard in question was alive, and functioning, at the same time. This is the only tale I have found of a possession which did not require the possessor to be dead or unconscious. I do not know how he did it, but I have not read all the old books that still exist, and Lord Voldemort might well have found different stories. I suspect that, unlike what we might normally expect, he did not try to kill you _immediately_. If he knew the dark magic to take over another's body, he might have used that on you. Your dark side is really the remainder of his spirit."

Harry frowned. "That does not make sense. One, why would he do that, rather than killing me? Two, we _know_ that his last spell was the Killing Curse, why would he go to that effort and then try to kill me afterwards? Three, my dark side is not a separate entity, it is a way I sometimes _am_. I asked the sorting hat, and it did say that there was only one person under its brim. So it seems that this has little to do with _me_."

"Do not forget the words of the prophecy, Harry. _Either must destroy all but a remnant of the other._ That, I think, might have been what motivated him. When you try to prevent a prophecy in the obvious way, you invariably end up fulfilling it. Voldemort might have realized that the prophecy would not have been fulfilled if he just killed you, and it would be fate that _something_ would go wrong. Something that would _mark you as his equal_, which might refer to a transfer of power. When I learned of your dark side, I realized that it was obvious that Voldemort would not have made that mistake. _Preventing_ a prophecy is hard; _fulfilling_ it is easier. If he used this dark ritual on you, it _would_ mark you as his equal, as you would essentially share a part of his magic. And he might then be able to use the Killing Curse, which strikes directly at the soul, but is known to leave the body intact... That would leave only a remnant of you behind, your body, preserved by the possession. He might have released your body later, but then the prophecy would already be fulfilled."

"That seems... convoluted. And rather far-fetched."

"Do not disregard it because I do not know the details! I am guessing at the substance of the spell cast on this girl, and I am guessing that Voldemort knew it, and used it on you. The rest of this speculation is just filling in the gaps."

"Right. But that still doesn't address the problem that my dark side simply _does not behave like that_. Nor does it explain why You-Know-Who died."

"It might. The Killing Curse is not an easy spell, and I am not certain how it behaves in situations outside the obvious. If he was possessing your body at the time, it is conceivable that he accidentally hit that part of himself. Even the most powerful wizards can make mistakes, especially when they try magic that has never been done before. An accident like this could well make the spell backfire. And while we have exceedingly little data as to what a botched Killing Curse might do, it does not seem inconceivable that it caused a part of his personality to be blown into you – his personality only, not his consciousness, so the sorting hat would not see it. Perhaps, when his spirit was flung from his and your body, it passed through your soul, leaving part of itself behind? Or the possession itself warped what had already developed of your own personality? You were very young at the time, your mind and soul still growing, so that might be why you subsumed this part of him inside yourself. However it may be, it is still obviously a somewhat separate part of you."

"Hold on."

Was there any chance that this insane story was really true? Leaving aside all the guesswork and unstated assumptions about souls in the explanation, could Voldemort have caused some kind of spell effect that blasted his own personality in a part of Harry's brain?

_Dumbledore is generally hailed as wise,_ his Gryffindor side pointed out. _He is also probably insane, but he has read many ancient texts, knows of many dark rituals. In matters of myth and legend he is certainly schooled. I would not disregard his theory just because it seems somewhat wild – if he takes the possibility seriously, things like this might have happened before. Even disregarding the rest, his words suggest that there are multiple sources referring to _possession_ – what would something like that do to the developing brain of a baby?_

_But if it is true, how could we _know_ that?_ Ravenclaw asked. _It does fit the data somewhat, but Dumbledore _had_ most of this data when he constructed the hypothesis, so we cannot really use it as proof. Is there an additional experiment that could confirm some of these ideas?_

_We do not need to believe it to acknowledge the _possibility_ that our dark side was originally a part of Voldemort_, Slytherin pointed out. _And act accordingly._

_Act how?_ Ravenclaw rebutted. _If we do not know the extent or the method of the possession, the possibilities to account for are endless. If even half of this story is true, it could mean that something _more_ than his personality is still there – what if he is still possessing us? What if he can take us over any time he likes, read our mind, or perhaps even have us drop dead on command?_

_I don't think he read our thoughts..._ Hufflepuff pointed out timidly. _He didn't really seem to know about Draco's Patronus, or about the fake spell we gave Tracy._

_Or that's just what he wants you to think,_ said the voice of Moody.

There was a brief pause as the other imaginary personalities stared at the newcomer, but then Ravenclaw gave a mental shrug, and added: _This is Quirrell we're talking about. There's really no telling with him. But it _would_ explain why he so often seems to know exactly what we aren't telling him, and manages to deduce the right conclusion even when there is no way he could _possibly_ figure that out from just the information he has._

"All right. I guess it is _possible_, or parts of it are. I'll think about it some more."

Dumbledore nodded. "Then I guess I shall go and inform Amelia, and the Order now." He sighed. "And I suppose you would like me to formally introduce you into the Order, and keep you involved in its activities?

"Well..." Harry shifted awkwardly. "Please don't take this the wrong way, Professor, but I don't think I really want to be part of the Order of the Phoenix –"

Dumbledore gazed at him tiredly. "Oh? That seems uncharacteristic of you. Would you not normally ask to be included and kept up-to-date of such activities? I have been trying to treat you less like a child."

"Well, yes, but, that's not it..." There was no tactful way of putting this. He wasn't quite ready to take Dumbledore as his enemy – the old man didn't seem _evil_; in fact, he was obviously well-intentioned, or Fawkes would leave him; what little he knew about phoenixes at least agreed on that. Nor was it _certain_ that he had tortured Narcissa Malfoy to death. But still... "I just don't like your methods, Professor."

"Ah." The old wizard looked very ancient indeed, as he stared sadly at Harry. "And you believe that you can do better? That you can fight your war without making sacrifices, or taking losses?"

"I don't know. But at least I want to try."

The old wizard sighed. "Very well. I cannot say that this is entirely unexpected. Still, though, as I told you on the first day we spoke, I do believe that you and I are game-pieces of the same color, Harry. You _do_ oppose Voldemort, do you not, even if he is the wizard who mentored you, and you have come to think of him as a friend?"

Harry nodded. There was no way he could even consider taking Albus Dumbledore as his enemy without being _slightly more offended_ about a dark wizard who nailed the skins of Yermy Wibble and his family to a wall, or who had made Hermione believe that she would turn to cold-blooded murder, or who had bound Bellatrix Black to him with dark magic, or who had mocked Lily in her final moments, or who had done all those other acts of torture, murder and general terrorism by comparison with which merely murdering Harry's parents was not even worth mentioning... It was painful to think that it would have been _Professor Quirrell_ behind all that, and some part of him still didn't believe that he and the late Dark Lord were the same person, but regardless of that, Lord Voldemort was his enemy, plain and simple. Whether that meant he had to _die_ was a different question, but should he stand in the way of Dumbledore killing him if there was an opening? Could he be that sure of himself?

"He is my enemy," Harry simply replied.

"Would you like me to relinquish command of the Order to you?"

Harry blinked, taken aback. "What?"

"Minerva has already shown that, when pressed on the point, her first loyalty is with you rather than me. Others might make the same choice. You are our symbol of hope, Harry, and if anyone can defeat him, it is you. You might turn out to be a better leader than I was, or have become now."

"No, I... I don't think I'm ready for... no."

"Very well." The old wizard stood up, and was suddenly dressed in formal black robes. Despite the look of sadness his face was still wearing, he seemed formidable. "Then I shall continue to oppose Voldemort in any way I can, until you tell me to back off and get out of your way. I expect that you shall form your own plans. But do not hesitate to call on me when you need me for any purpose. You may have lost faith in me, Harry, and you may even be right in that. However, my loyalty will always be with you."

* * *

-o-o-o-o-o-

* * *

**Author's Footnote:** this text may seem to contradict chapter 53, where Bellatrix says she got the wand from the Potters' house. In fact, it was based on an earlier version of the text, where Bellatrix said this instead:

_"Your wand," murmured Bellatrix, "I hid it in the graveyard, my lord, before I left... under the tombstone to the right of your father's grave... will you kill me, now, if that was all you wished of me... I think I must have always wanted you to be the one to kill me... but I can't remember now, it must have been a happy thought..."_

This paragraph was altered afterwards, probably to clarify the question where she would have got the wand. Which is unfortunate for me, as I took the different interpretation for this spin-off. :) So, please pretend that Bellatrix left ambiguous where she got the wand!

As for the Fidelius Charm: this charm is not the same as in the original Harry Potter books, where its use is somewhat inconsistent (and would be overpowered if used rationally). Most importantly, you cannot be your own secret-keeper, the protection simply breaks when the secret-keeper dies, and the spell can only be used on a location, not on other secrets. I've written up some musings below of how I roughly envision it could work (and still be mostly consistent with all but the last Harry Potter book), but these details will not be important.

The Fidelius Charm is actually not a charm, but rather a piece of ritual magic (hence why it gets to be so powerful). The ritual is performed by a witch or wizard of great power (the caster), targeting a not-too-large location (the secret), and using one or more volunteers (the secret-keepers). The key to the ritual is _trust_: the location stays safe as long as a trusted person (or multiple trusted people) chooses to jeopardize their own safety over betraying the secret location (and presumably the people within).

* Once performed, the location is hidden from sight, plotting, charms, divinations or any other magical or mundane means. There are no known ways to get around the protection. Even if you know for a fact that there are people hidden in 12 Grimmauld Place, you have no way of reaching the place unless you are explicitly told about the location by a secret-keeper.

* Only the secret-keepers can tell other people about the secret. The people who are told do NOT become secret-keepers, so they cannot give other parties access. Secret-keepers must be witches or wizards, and cannot be added after the completion of the ritual. Sharing the secret can only be done willingly: if it is spoken under Veritaserum or Imperius, or plucked from their mind using Legilimency, the person in question will still not be able to find the location. This does not preclude torture, however, as a tortured secret-keeper still has a _choice _whether or not to reveal the secret of the location. To stay in keeping with the novels, let us say that the caster does not need to identify the secret-keepers by name, but they are for instance identified as the people inside the location at the time of the ritual; if anyone wanted extra safety by deceiving the caster about the identity of the secret-keepers, the volunteer could use polyjuice potion. Or, say, carry a certain rat in their pocket to get multiple secret-keepers. :)

* A person is removed as a secret-keeper if they are (a) dead, (b) inside a location hidden by the Fidelius Charm for more than an hour, (c) unable to share the secret willingly for more than an hour – for instance because they are insane, in a coma, under Imperius, in a magical sleep or imprisoned, or if they have sworn an unbreakable vow that would interfere with having a choice in the matter.

* The spell breaks if the location has been abandoned by humans for over a day, if the caster dies, or if there are no secret-keepers left. When the protection starts fading, everyone inside the location will be aware of this, and they will have several minutes before they are exposed.

* Temporary sacrifices (for as long as the protection is active – note that for the unbreakable vow, as described in chapter 74, two out of three sacrifices are of this temporary nature): the location sacrifices accessibility, the secret-keepers sacrifice their own safety (they run a severe risk of getting captured and tortured while they're keeping the secret) and the caster sacrifices a small part of their magic to keep the protection active.

* Permanent sacrifices: safety (for the secret-keeper). Aside from the risks while the protection is active, they sacrifice their ability to use / be subjected to personal wards (e.g. blood wards or wards that stop you from getting traced by name). Nor can they hide from divinations that determine whether they are or have been a secret-keeper. (Other permanent sacrifices would also work; I actually think the temporary sacrifice is bad enough to be going on with, but Quirrell _did_ say that all rituals required permanent sacrifice.)

So, you can have multiple secret-keepers, but you'd better trust every single one of them not to betray you even under torture. There's no point being your own secret-keeper; if you stay inside the hidden location for more than an hour (for example to sleep), the spell breaks. It makes sense for an enemy to kill a secret-keeper in the hope to break the spell, but then the people in the hidden location will have warning (and it won't work if there are other secret-keepers), so persuading them to speak would be preferable. You could hide a family by persuading a good person completely unrelated to them to be a secret-keeper (without telling them who's in the location they're hiding), which mitigates the risk to the secret-keeper, but then they will have little reason to suffer and/or die for you if their secret-keeperness should be discovered (plus, since the secret-keeper can access the location, they can probably check who's inside it without being noticed, and then they might just choose to betray you for money or other gains).

(I hope I made this watertight. However, I have little doubt that the munchkins among you will figure out further ways to break this. :))


	12. Chapter 92: Little Children Grow Up, Pt1

**Author's Note:** This chapter was originally meant to be a short interlude to move the plot forward in a few separate events, but then it got longer and longer and ended up being split into two chapters. There's not really an overreaching theme – you might see it a bit like an "aftermaths" chapter, except that it _starts_ an arch rather than ending it. Chapter 94 (next week) will have a lot of action again, I promise. :)

* * *

**CHAPTER 92: LITTLE CHILDREN GROW UP, PT 1**

* * *

"Hi Mum. Hi Dad."

Harry was trembling a little as he entered the small three-room guest apartment where Petunia Evans-Verres and Michael Verres-Evans had been lodged.

They didn't know.

They didn't know _anything_.

"Hello son," his father said with a congenial smile, and he was wrapped into two pairs of arms.

"That woman, Professor McGonagall, said that you couldn't come home, but has pleaded that we come to you this week," Mother said. "Are you all right, Harry?"

"I'm okay." He distractedly ran his fingers through his hair. Professor McGonagall had warned him not to tell them too much, because it would be bad security if his parents knew before the various governments did. He would normally have argued, but part of him just _didn't want to deal with this right now_. He just wanted to be with his parents and not have them freak out on him like they undoubtedly would, the moment they were told. Which they would have to be, because Harry wasn't about to just let them go home. "There... there are some things which are troubling. But I really don't want to talk about it right now. It's... we can talk in a few days, if that's okay?"

His father looked at him with a concerned frown. "What's going on with you?"

"I _really_ don't want to worry you with this now. Please. Let's wait a few days."

"But _Harry_," his mother started, but Michael held up a hand.

"No, Petunia. I think we should leave him for now. I'm getting the feeling that something big's happened here. And if he has some kind of trauma, then the best thing we can do is to allow his mind to repress those memories for a while. He will talk to us when he's ready, won't you Harry?"

Harry nodded gratefully. "Are _you_ okay, mom? I know you don't like magic much..."

"I'm okay." She sounded surprisingly sincere. "This place... it's very normal. I had not expected that."

Harry nodded. The Muggle-relation-apartments had been built for those Muggle relatives who wanted to know exactly where their son, daughter, sibling or cousin was going, but who would have been wildly uncomfortable actually finding out. The rooms were enchanted to redecorate themselves according to whatever standards the upper-class British citizenry of the current period held (although it never changed while it had inhabitants), and had in the past housed clergymen, dukes, and even on one occasion a queen. There was a separate bedroom, and a dining room which got serviced with the more _mundane_ parts of what the House tables got.

"So, would you like me to show you around a little after dinner? I bet you'd like to see the library, dad."

Professor Verres-Evans looked torn, but then sighed. "I'm sorry, Harry. Unfortunately, the deadline for a long-overdue journal paper review is next Tuesday. That friendly Professor McGonagall has told me that she can personally make sure it arrives on time, without the usual mail delay, but it still means I'll have to work _most_ of the time, and cannot allow myself too much indulgence. And we both know what would happen if I went to see that library of yours."

"And I'm finishing off my application letter tonight," Petunia Evans-Verres said. "That Professor really came quite unexpectedly! We hadn't counted on going to see you until later this week, and we didn't know that we would be invited to _stay_ here."

"Application letter?"

"Yes. Oh, we haven't told you that, have we?" She beamed at her husband, who was looking proudly at her. "I am going back to college. Your father and I have talked about it, and I want to do a Master's Degree in Law. We can afford it, now." She looked a bit guilty for a moment. "At least... you _said_ over Christmas that we should stop saving up for you, because you'd never need money for a university degree. You meant that, right?"

"I did." If he'd ended up going three million pounds in debt to Lucius Malfoy, Harry might have regretted that remark, but as it was, it seemed like his parents had a better way of spending their money. "But Mum, I never knew you wanted that!"

Petunia just smiled. "Hey, what's that smell?"

"Oh, I bet the food just got served. They always have really tasty stuff here, you'll see!"

Harry dragged his parents to the dining room where, indeed, the table was laden with a variety of delicious dishes (although none of Harry's favorites, as those might be a bit too strange for Muggles). Tonight, he could pretend to be a little boy for a bit. Tomorrow, he was going to have to figure out how to fight his war.

* * *

Saturday morning.

Draco slowly descended the stairs to the private rooms below the Slytherin Dungeons, followed by his trunk (and by Gregory and Vincent, of course, but that went without saying). It was the first Saturday of the Easter holidays, and most students had gone home today. Draco, however, didn't have much to go home _to_; his father was engaged with the gathering of the International Confederation this week, and Draco would rather be at Hogwarts than just have the house elf for company. So he'd stayed at home for two days after he was released from St. Mungo's, and then his father had side-along-Apparated him to Hogsmeade before leaving for France. Professor Snape had walked him back to the Slytherin dormitories, and now, he desperately wanted to lie down for a bit.

(Side-along Apparition was a useful method of transportation, if you were too young to have learned to Apparate by yourself. However, besides carrying the risk of getting splinched if you moved too much, it also took just as much magic from the person being transported as a standard Apparition would do. At Draco's age, that meant he was on the brink of magical exhaustion.)

Down in the little hall leading off to the private rooms, Draco sent Gregory and Vincent back up, and opened his door. Right at that moment, a head appeared from the opposite door. "Draco Malfoy?"

"Miss Greengrass." Draco inclined his head. Of course Daphne would be here too; her mother, the Lady Greengrass, was a speaker for Britain at the Confederation, and her father would be expected to accompany his wife. "How can I help you?"

"Draco, I need to talk to you, privately."

He raised his eyebrows. Despite being the only two Slytherins to warrant a private room this year, he had never really spoken with Daphne. Their families were not allies, and he hadn't considered her to be on a first-name basis with him.

"I am rather tired right now, Miss Greengrass. Perhaps we can talk in an hour or so?"

She hesitated. "I don't know. There's something I need to tell you, and it could be important."

He sighed. "Oh, very well. Come on in, then. But please don't be offended if I lie down." It _would_ be rude, but he needed it, and she could hardly blame him after pushing him like that.

"Of course." She followed him in gracefully, as befitted the daughter of a Noble House, and shut the door behind them. Then she blurted out: "Draco, I think you're in danger. Big danger. Too big to walk around unprotected."

He lay down, and pointed her to the chair. "And why is that?" he asked wearily.

"Because I _know_ Hermione, and so does everyone in S.P.H.E.W., and we all agree that there is no way Hermione would have attacked you like that! That means that she must have been Memory-Charmed by someone who wants you dead and who _isn't_ in Azkaban. And _that_ means there is someone around who might try something else."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Memory-Charmed? That's like the weakest excuse ever."

"Oh really, _Mister Malfoy_? And what do you think is more likely? That someone like _Hermione Granger_ would try to kill you for no good reason, or that your father offended someone moderately powerful?"

Draco blinked. "Did you have anyone in mind?"

"No. You may know more of your father's activities than I do. There's a legion of people who _might_ have done it, though. Political opponents of your father who want to destabilize him, or just take revenge – did your father ever cause someone's child to die, maybe indirectly because the parents couldn't afford to pay medical bills? Or they could have been _allies_ of your father, who didn't like the direction the future Lord Malfoy seemed to be heading. In both of those cases, they'll just try to kill you again. And then there's others too... but going by your expression, I guess you don't believe me, do you?"

"Hold on for a bit." Draco held up a hand and stared at the ceiling, trying to parse Daphne's words.

So Hermione's friends were claiming that she had been _Memory-Charmed_. Which was, like, the oldest excuse on the book. That never actually _happened_...

_What do you know, and how do you think you know it?_

He could almost hear it, Harry's voice whispering in his ear, as little as he wanted to have to do with the Boy-Who-Lived right now. But that had become part of his way of thinking, and maybe he shouldn't completely disregard those lessons. They had helped him in some ways, even as they had hurt him in others. And he wasn't enough of a fool to reject that the future Lady Greengrass was telling him something significant.

It was entirely possible that his father had rejected someone's plea for a loan to pay medical costs at some point, or even that some political ally of his father's wanted him dead. He could easily imagine the Carrows, or the Parkinsons, or even the family of Flint, harboring resentment over his repeatedly helping a Mudblood. But none of them were _powerful_ or _cunning_ enough to do that. The revenge thing was harder to reject, but then, wouldn't they want father to know that it had been them, rather than blaming it on the insanity of another student? If they'd just wanted revenge, why use Granger, and not someone who father would have more trouble getting sentenced? It would be that much more agonizing.

No, it probably wasn't revenge. If someone other than Granger was behind this, they had something to gain. But who could profit from murdering the heir of House Malfoy?

Dumbledore.

He _would_ be able to do this. He would know exactly where the wards were weak – or in fact, maybe the wards _had_ cried out over his injuries, and the Headmaster had conveniently ignored them. He would _easily_ have been able to Memory-Charm Granger. In fact, he wouldn't have needed to, he could have used Legilimency. The court Legilimens had _actually said_ that someone had used Legilimency on her, and Dumbledore had _admitted_ that it was him! How could they not have realized this before? With his son dead, Lucius Malfoy would not perform his best at the International Confederation of Wizards, if he went to the meeting at all. And what was it Potter had said? That his father had told Harry that if anything should happen to his son, he would throw away all his ambitions for the sake of revenge? Would Dumbledore know this? Could Potter _possibly_ have been so stupid as to tell him?

But why Granger? Just because she stood out? Or had she managed to earn his enmity in some way? Dumbledore _had_ been pleading on her behalf before the Wizengamot, father had mentioned. But he had rejected Harry's bargain, when the Boy-Who-Lived had appeared willing to buy his friend's life for a hundred thousand Galleons. Had he wanted her sent to Azkaban all along?

If this had been a plot, and what had happened was the _intended result_, then who was benefiting? Why would anyone besides father _want_ her sent to Azkaban? In the big picture, she didn't seem all that important.

But what else had happened? House Potter and House Malfoy had become sworn enemies. And there was one person who definitely gained from that.

"I will think about the possibility that it might have been someone else," he said levelly. He couldn't say much more, for she was not an Occlumens, and if she testified before the Wizengamot that the heir of House Malfoy was willing to believe that Granger was innocent only days after she was convicted, it could cause a lot of trouble. At least he would have to discuss with father first. "Which other parties were you suspecting, Miss Greengrass?"

"Enemies of Hermione. You know we made a lot of people angry with S.P.H.E.W.. Well, Padma asked Professor Flitwick on Thursday, and he privately told her that at least fourteen powerful families were contacted by students of Gryffindor and Slytherin both. And all that anger was primarily focused on Hermione, not the rest of us. Those letters might also have mentioned your rather... unusual stance on the situation. Families who are allied with your father might have thought to kill two birds with one stone, and get rid of the inconvenient Malfoy heir as well as the insolent Muggleborn witch. Families who are opposed to your father might have wanted to get rid of the insolent Ravenclaw and destabilize Lucius Malfoy. Or it is also possible that you were never meant to die, and someone bribed _Quirrell_ to set up the situation, and make sure you didn't survive." She shrugged. "There are so many suspects who seem more likely than Hermione. It's like mother always taught me, if you're powerful enough, there are going to be people who want you dead."

"Quite," he said dryly. "You've accused approximately the entire political spectrum of Britain. Was that all?"

"Well..." She bit her lip. "Do you think your father might have –?"

"No," Draco bit coldly, a rush of anger searing through him.

"Then, I guess that's all." She stood up. "I'll leave you to your rest now. Just – please be on your guard." She bowed slightly and left the room, Draco glaring after her.

* * *

Petunia seemed a bit jumpy as she walked alongside her son.

Harry had gone to spend some time in his parents' little apartment this morning (supposedly doing homework, but in reality using his notepad to make Bayesian calculations about various possibilities and keeping his transfiguration book open just for deniability), and then mother had said that she would like to go outside for a while. Harry doubted that she _really_ wanted to see the grounds, but she wanted to spend time with her son, and he didn't mind giving her that.

So now, they walked along the lake together, Harry desperately hoping that the giant squid wouldn't use today to make an appearance (he made sure to keep a healthy distance from the water just in case). There were some students sitting around, but no one he really knew. Birds, and the occasional magical creature, could be heard from the trees.

"It is beautiful here," mother said with a sad sigh. She stood still and looked back at the castle. "And the school itself is simply marvelous. It must be great, living here."

"Yes." Harry wondered, for a moment, what life would have been like if he _hadn't_ been a wizard. Just a plain old high school, or more likely starving grad students teaching him at home. National science competitions. Science fiction books. He would probably still not have any friends, if past experience was anything to go by. And he wouldn't have to save them from the kind of prison that should have been plain inconceivable since the enlightenment. No wars to fight. Just a normal child-prodigy. It seemed unimaginably far away, now. "Mostly."

She didn't seem to notice the hesitation. "I have wondered about this place for so many years, even when I was afraid to admit it. First I longed for it, and then I hated it in my heart. But I can see now why Lily loved it here so much. Why she would choose it over..." She trailed off, shook her head a little, and walked on, towards the forest.

Harry walked alongside her in silence.

"Mum," he said eventually. "Lily _did_ love you. She loved you a lot."

"Oh, I know." But she didn't sound convinced.

"No, mum, I really mean it. Did she ever tell you about Azkaban?"

"Azkaban?" The woman looked confused for a moment. "That's a magical prison, isn't it? Her boyfriend, James, mentioned it once when he was visiting our parents for dinner. I mostly remember that he said it was pretty secure, but he didn't seem too happy about it for some reason."

_Thank you, father._

"Oh, it's pretty secure, all right." Harry sighed. "It's guarded by the darkest of magical creatures, Dementors. They suck all happiness out of you. When you're there, you're not _capable_ of thinking happy thoughts, and they drain your life force and magic out of you besides."

"You mean like clinical depression?" she asked, with a concerned tone to her voice.

"That's an approximation, I think, but it's _worse_ than that. It's not just that you cannot be happy about things anymore, you cannot even _think_ about the things that would normally make you happy. You'll forget your parents, your children, your friends. The prisoners won't escape, because they can't contemplate such a happy idea. They relive their worst memories over and over, stuck in an endlessly repeating loop, both awake and in their sleep. Most people don't survive it very long." He swallowed. There was a lump in his throat. "It's a really, really bad place, mum."

"I can see that," Petunia agreed. "But why are you telling me this?"

"Because the sentence for irresponsible magic that kills a Muggle is five years in Azkaban."

She stopped in her tracks, looking horrified.

"She didn't tell you," Harry observed quietly. "I figured as much. But I found the potion she must have given you in a book, and it's ridiculously hard to make. Any mistake could have killed you. She must have been really skilled to dare try it, but even if she was doing everything perfectly, there are factors beyond control, like the age of the _Mimbulus Mimbletonia_ she used, or your body's natural defenses. And then she'd have lost her sister, and would have had five years to dwell on that memory in Azkaban. She must have really, _really_ loved you, mum, to take the risk of accidentally killing you in order to help you."

The spell had been one of many in the book Flitwick had pointed him to for finding the acorn-recipe. It was in the forbidden section, of course – students who didn't know what they were doing would never have been exposed to _this_ sort of spell. Aside from the warnings about the likelihood of not surviving the illness as all the cells in your body were modified, it had also said that, even if successful, there was about a 75% chance of permanent infertility. Was that why mother had never had any children of her own? Had Lily warned her about this from the start?

"Thank you for telling me this, Harry." Mother's voice trembled a little, and there were tears in her eyes. "I never knew that."

They walked in silence for a while. Mum was chewing on her lip, as she sometimes did when wondering whether to say something or not.

"I thought she had shut us out," Petunia spoke at last. "It was like she was... drawing away. We were close as children, but that just _stopped_ when she came here. I know it was partly my fault, I was jealous, but she never tried to get close to me either, anymore. When she got home for the holidays, she just hung out with that greasy boy who lived down the village. Or she went and stayed with friends for weeks. We rarely saw her. How could I even have known that she still loved me?"

"That's... it's normal. I'm sorry, mum, it _shouldn't_ be like that, but it's the standard thing that happens to people here. It's _painful_ to be too close to your Muggle relatives. Because they can't be in your world, you will always have to keep secrets from them. And then they die when they are what a wizard would consider to be middle-aged, and it's easier to just _not think_ about that. It's like the way people with a chronic or lethal illness suddenly find themselves with far fewer friends than they used to have, so many people just can't deal with it, and that's bad and inexcusable, but it's just what most people do. You know I'll never act like that, mum. But you also know I'm a bit... different from most people. I _always_ think about bad things that might happen, so I can avoid them. And I guess Lily just wasn't like that. But she _did_ love you."

There was a short silence. Then: "You think we have a chronic illness?"

Harry wondered briefly whether she had really picked up anything else he had said. He could talk to his father about this sort of thing, but mother didn't know all the psychology involved.

He shrugged helplessly. "Not really, but I suppose you can compare it to that. In fact, it's probably worse. Everything in the wizarding world is sort of implicitly pushing us to stay away from Muggles. If a witch or wizard marries a Muggle, one of them is going to be an outcast in the community they live in – it's usually a really bad marriage, apparently – so you don't want to risk falling in love with one. If someone you care about is hit by a car on a busy junction and dying in front of your eyes, you aren't even allowed to do the trivial spells that will save them if it risks breaking the International Statue of Secrecy, because you'll be sent to Azkaban for that. So you see... it's _easier_ to draw away..." He trailed off.

Petunia was looking at him ponderously. "You're very scared of Azkaban."

"I'm not really," Harry shrugged. "But I'm angry that it exists at all. It's _horrible_ and that place should be _destroyed_ like the remnant of the Middle Ages that it is, but I don't have the _power_, not yet, I can't go there and destroy it without killing myself..." His voice caught.

"Why are you even thinking about that?" Mother grabbed him by the shoulder and gently turned him towards herself. "You are _eleven years old_. If your government is committing atrocities, that's not your fault, Harry!"

"Of course it's my fault. There is no one else here who could be responsible for anything."

"Harry!"

"No, mum," he smiled sadly. "The government is broken and corrupt. The courts are insane. The whole system is completely _medieval_, they've just ignored everything that happened since the Dark Ages. Even the people who are supposed to be the good guys aren't _rational_, and there's not enough of them to even start the _debate_ about things like not torturing prisoners to death. And the people here look up to me as a leader, and I have certain powers that would make it possible... I'm not convincing you, am I?"

"You are a child. It's not your responsibility to take care of adults, it's their responsibility to take care of you."

"Who says it's just about adults?" Harry muttered darkly.

Petunia's face paled. "Are there children in Azkaban?"

"Forget it. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up."

"That's what's wrong, isn't it. That's what has you so traumatized that your Professor insisted that we came immediately. That's why you keep bringing it up. Someone you know is there. Or _you_ have been there..."

"Mum, really, it's okay. I want Azkaban torn down _regardless_ of who's in it."

"You promised that you wouldn't act like this, Harry. That you wouldn't shy away from us because we are Muggles. Are you going to tell me the truth?"

_Ouch._

"Fine," Harry sighed. "Yes, you guessed right, if for the wrong reasons. Hermione's in Azkaban."

"Hermione?" Her eyes widened with horror, and her hands flew to her mouth. "That sweet girl we visited over Christmas?"

"I _told_ you, the courts are insane and medieval. She's innocent of course. Someone tried to kill Draco, a friend of mine who's _noble_, like a duke's son or something, and they framed Hermione for it. And then the Wizengamot, that's like the highest magical court in Britain, voted to send her to Azkaban for ten years. Don't look that horrified, mum, she's not suffering like the others there, she's... kept apart from the other prisoners, because she's so young, so it's just that she's locked up in a cell." If anyone read mother's mind, or she talked about it, Harry could always claim that he had only been trying to reassure his mother.

"She's not in that... depressed state?"

"No. I don't think so."

"But she's in jail. For ten years. And not a youth prison with classes and psychological help."

"No."

"What did her parents say?"

"I'm not sure they know, actually... They weren't invited to the trial, and I haven't asked Professor McGonagall what she told them."

Petunia looked baffled for a moment. "That's just unacceptable! Isn't there any way to appeal?"

"Not unless we can _prove_, beyond reasonable doubt, that she's innocent. They don't really do innocent until proven guilty here. Or unless I can convince Draco's father, at least, who doesn't seem like he wants to be convinced very much. That, or I have to persuade Dumbledore to let me pay the five million pounds worth of magical money to buy her free, but that would mean going into debt, and he isn't going to let me." He kicked at some clumps of grass.

"Five million pounds?" she repeated.

"Yeah. That's what Draco's father demanded to let her go. A hundred thousand galleons, and that's more than twice as much as what James Potter left me."

"But Harry... if _you_ were in a jail like that, and your father and I could get you out for five million pounds, we'd _do_ that. We wouldn't hesitate a second to take out a mortgage and spend the rest of our lives paying it off. And Dr. and Dr. Granger are far richer than we are, I think their house alone is worth about a million pounds."

Harry halted in his tracks.

_I didn't think of that._

_Why didn't I think of that?_

It wouldn't be a great solution. There would still be an enormous debt, and Hermione's parents would probably demand that she return home if they paid that much for her. Plus, Hermione was innocent, no one _should_ have to pay for her. But still...

_Why did I consider killing two thirds of the Wizengamot to save Hermione from the Dementors, and not something as simple as asking her parents for the money?_

"Nice thing to ask them," he muttered. "Hello Mr. and Mrs. Granger, do you have five million pounds to spare to save your daughter from this crazy jail she got put in for a murder she didn't commit?"

"They would want to be asked! Harry, this is what parents are for!" She looked stressed. "You said you wouldn't, Harry. You wouldn't stop thinking of us just because we're Muggles and have this... this chronic disease if you want to call it that. But even if you still love us, you're not thinking of Muggles as people who can _help_ you. You didn't, and apparently Hermione didn't, and your teachers didn't..." She stopped herself, then sighed deeply. "I'm sorry, it's not your responsibility to save Hermione, so you shouldn't have to think about that. But your Professor McGonagall really, really should have. Can you tell me where her office is, so I can talk to her?"

"I will talk to her." He didn't say that he was going ask McGonagall to arrange the deal, but he'd better discuss it at least before mum took the initiative.

"Harry..."

"No, please. She'll take me more seriously. And I know a bit more of the politics involved."

Petunia sighed. "Fine. But I am telling your father."

Harry nodded. It was probably best to ease them into this part before he'd have to tell his parents about Voldemort.

* * *

"She's not in."

Harry turned his head. He had just knocked on Professor McGonagall's door. A ghost was floating towards him. Harry recognized it as Nearly Headless Nick, the Gryffindor House ghost.

"When will she be back?"

The ghost looked concerned.

"I don't know. Later today, probably. Hopefully. There was an emergency. She told me to excuse her, if anyone came looking for her or the Headmaster."

Harry's heart sank. "What kind of emergency?"

"There has been a large magical attack on Muggles in Easingwold. Two Muggleborn Gryffindors live there." He bobbed up and down nervously, his head wobbling on his shoulders. "They were home for the holidays. She's gone to see whether they or their families need help. The Headmaster has also gone there, to help clear up the mess."

_Quirrell._

What on earth was he up to?

"How large are the casualties?" His mouth was dry. He had thought of saving his parents, but the _entire rest of the world_ was quite unprotected from whatever the Defense Professor was planning.

"Hundreds of deaths, when she got the news." Nick answered. "Over a thousand wounded."

_Crap._

Harry walked away, not looking where he was going.

* * *

It is a sad truth that the human mind just doesn't know how to deal with scope. If the average person sees a video of a single person dying, they might be shocked. A hundred, or even a thousand deaths, is just a number. So Harry's mind _wasn't_ reeling in absolute shock at the revelation of a magical attack on a village full of innocent Muggles. Instead, it retained all its normal functionality, and employed this on maximum efficiency for blaming Harry.

Quirrell – Lord Voldemort – had left the school, saying he would "update his plans".

One day later, hundreds of people had died in a magical attack. Harry didn't know how, or why, but it probably wouldn't have happened if Quirrell had still been in Hogwarts.

Hundreds of human lives. Each and every single one of them as valuable as Hermione, as Mum and Dad.

_Could I have stopped this?_

If only he had engineered a potions accident yesterday, before having to face Quirrell.

If only he'd been smarter, and not given away his suspicions.

If only he had done the sensible thing and _left_ after arranging a delay to think about things. Dumbledore had his own Time-Turner, he could have contacted Moody and done their checks earlier.

If only he'd attacked Quirrell when the man left, when he'd basically _admitted_ that he was plotting a dark plan. The idea had not occurred to him at the time, but if he'd drawn his wand and cast a spell on Quirrell, their magic would have resonated out of control again, and that would have _stopped_ him. It might theoretically have killed them both, but Quirrell could have stopped that by turning into an Animagus, and he wasn't likely to risk both their lives.

If only.

_We have decisively failed to prevent any deaths during our quest,_ the voice of Slytherin was saying icily. _Will you stop trying to live by the code of Batman now?_

_Killing Quirrell was never a real choice,_ Gryffindor pointed out. _No one died _because_ we tried to live the ideals of the enlightenment._

_Yet,_ Slytherin bit back. _But that's only a matter of time._

_We don't even know whether this was Quirrell,_ Hufflepuff pointed out. _It _could_ be unrelated..._ The voice trailed off as the other parts of Harry glared it into silence.

_This sort of thing was normal, ten years ago,_ Slytherin continued, as though there hadn't been an interruption. _It is, apparently, what Voldemort does, for whatever reason he might have. If we get a chance to kill him, and subduing him would have a higher chance of failure, are you going to hesitate?_

Harry didn't know what Easingwold looked like, or what had happened, but it was easy enough to let his imagination fill in the details. A large crater with purple smoke billowing up from it. Corpses, scattered around. Collapsed houses. Children screaming. Limbs torn off.

_Nothing is worth that war beginning again even one day earlier than it must,_ Dumbledore had said, when Harry had yelled at him for his approach to the bullying problem in Hogwarts. Dumbledore knew, first-hand, what it meant to lead a war. He had killed people in the last war, probably innocents as well as Death Eaters, and he had let Professor Snape torment students and turned a blind eye to bullying. All to prevent this sort of thing.

_We can do better than that,_ Gryffindor whispered in his ear. _Dumbledore did what he felt he had to, but we _will_ find a better way._

_How?_ Slytherin bit.

To that question, however, the Boy-Who-Lived had no answer.

* * *

"It was an army of Inferi."

Most children were gone for the Easter holidays, and so the dinner tables _hadn't_ been abound with rumors for once. Thus, after dinner, Harry had sat himself down by Professor McGonagall's office invisibly, and waited for her to return. It was almost midnight when she did, but she let him in without argument.

"Voldemort – it must have been him – has made every single corpse in the local graveyard rise up, and attack anyone they encountered. Worse, he put a spell on them so those people the Inferi killed _also_ became Inferi."

"They must have thought it was the zombie Apocalypse," Harry muttered. "Couldn't they hide?"

"Oh, they did. Unfortunately, Inferi are stronger than the humans they once were. They ripped doors off their hinges, smashed through barricades. Those few Muggles with weapons tried shooting at them, or chopping their limbs off, but the only thing that helps against Inferi is fire, and there were only two people in the town who knew that."

"The Gryffindor students?"

Professor McGonagall nodded. "Gabrielle and Rosaline Collins. Fifth- and third-year of Gryffindor. _Fortunately_ Quirrell – Voldemort," she looked pained at this, "had taught them how to handle Inferi. Gabrielle went outside and cast _Incendio_, visible for all Muggles to see, and yelled at them to use fire. Nobody protested the appearance of a witch in their midst, this time. But then of course all the Inferi turned on her, and she hadn't learned to Apparate yet..." Professor McGonagall looked hard. "Some of the villagers helped with torches, and her parents dragged her inside a circle of fire they managed to draw up, contained by Rosaline, but her wand had broken and she was heavily wounded. She's in St. Mungo's now. The healers say she'll probably live, but they aren't sure whether they'll be able to regrow her legs."

Harry swallowed. "How did you find out?" he whispered.

"Rosaline has a half-blood friend, Lana Wistington. She called her by telephone. Lana used the Floo network to contact her mother, who works at the Ministry. Mrs. Wistington was in a meeting, but Lana yelled as long as she had to until someone came, and told them. That was Arthur Weasley, a member of the Order of the Phoenix, so after warning Amelia Bones, he notified Albus at once. It didn't take long for qualified wizards to arrive on the scene after that." She sighed deeply. "The most heavily wounded Muggles are treated in St. Mungo's; for the others we brought healers to the local hospital. We _hope_ that we got all the Inferi, and there aren't any left shambling through the nearby woods."

Harry winced at the idea. It would only take one to cause another outbreak. "How are they going to keep this one a secret?"

"When I left, a quarantine had been called. They're still working on the exact stories, and no one has been Obliviated yet, but to the outside world the story for now is that there is a highly infectious virus, so absolutely everyone has to be kept out, or in. A lot of the houses have been destroyed in the fires Muggles made after Gabrielle's warning, so they're probably going to use a massive fire in the story, torch the graveyard, and also burn all the other corpses with... unusual wounds. The Muggle prime minister has been notified. But it's going to be hard to cover this one up properly, Albus is saying there'll be conspiracy theories for _decades_ even with full government co-operation."

Harry nodded. Even if you could stop the Muggle government from interfering, there was _no way_ the rest of the population wasn't going to be worried about the sudden appearance of a new virus that required the quarantining of a whole town. Medical researchers would be all over the place once the quarantine got lifted, and preferably before.

"Anyway," she resumed. "It looks like he is striking at Muggles. For what reason, I don't know. Even if he knew of the Collins sisters, it seems unlikely that this would have something to do with them. Whatever he might be up to next, I guess that it is a good thing that we brought your parents here, where they are safe."

Harry nodded. _Not that one set of parents _should_ matter compared to the hundreds who died today._ But to him, they did.

"Speaking of parents... Professor, my mother is probably going to want to talk to you when she next sees you. I told her about Hermione, and she pointed out that Hermione's parents would probably pay a hundred thousand Galleons for her."

Her eyes widened. "Are they that rich?"

Harry shrugged. "The Muggle economy works a little differently from the magical one. They'd probably have to take out a loan, but five million pounds is all in all not _that_ much."

"I am not sure the goblins would readily convert so much money at once," she said, frowning. But she appeared to really consider the matter. "And Lord Malfoy will not be available for non-urgent matters this week. Also, I fear that if we ask her parents to pay that much for her, they will want to take her home."

"And home is _not_ safe for her," Harry added.

"Exactly. Strange thought it feels to say this, she might be safer in Azkaban than with her parents, if Voldemort is striking again."

"I'm not sure Azkaban is safe," Harry said quietly. "It is not that hard to break in, if you can bribe or threaten someone who can cast the Patronus charm. All he needs to do is go there, and cast Avada Kedavra. Or better yet, if he suspects, drop a line to Lucius Malfoy that she got help."

Professor McGonagall blanched. "_Surely_ he wouldn't..."

"Wouldn't he? Unless I am very mistaken, he is the one who struck at her in the first place. She might not be important enough for him to make the effort, but we don't _know_ what he wants."

"Well. I shall definitely discuss with Albus. He will need to inform the ministry about Voldemort soon enough, and your testimony about Quirrell might be enough additional evidence to get her case reconsidered. But yes. If all else fails, I will make it clear to Albus that we are going to buy her out."

* * *

-o-o-o-o-o-

* * *

**Removed Text:** Sometimes I write text that I end up not using. Copied below is the original end of the conversation between Draco and Daphne, which was removed because (1) it wasn't actually advancing the storyline, and (2) a longer discussion on this subject already occurred in chapter 85. It adds yet another theory for what could have happened to Draco (really, the Aurors missed a _lot_ of possibilities). I actually briefly entertained the idea of an alternative spin-off where Harry suggests a public duel between Draco and Hermione to test experimentally whether the confessions are true in this regard – however, I cannot really see Harry taking that risk, as that would set up a "Draco won the duel = Hermione is guilty" scenario in everyone's minds.

"Quite," he said dryly. "You've accused approximately the entire political spectrum of Britain. Was that all?"

"Well..." She bit her lip. "There is one more person who might have been involved, but..." She trailed off.

"Who?" He pressed.

"Your father."

"_What?_"

"I knew you wouldn't want to believe this, and it is also just a possibility. But your father, like my parents, watched Saturday's battle. You humiliated him."

Draco felt his cheeks burn. "I am well aware of that. But there was a good reason, I was tired, and I took immediate steps to set the situation right."

"Did your father know that?"

Draco didn't answer.

"The point is, you humiliated your House and his politics in that battle, and that's right after you allied yourself with Granger and the rumors that you're also helping her against Flint and the others... if he decided that this was inappropriate behavior for the Malfoy heir, he could have asked Professor Snape to interfere. Snape is a teacher, and he's powerful, he could have pulled that off just one night after the battle."

"No." Draco's voice was icily cold. "You do not know my father, and you do not know me, Miss Greengrass. My father would _never_ do such a thing. If you have nothing further to say, I would ask you to please leave my room."

"There is another possibility. Would Snape act in your father's interest without your father's permission?"

"What do you mean?"

"Perhaps you didn't win your duel with Granger after all. She _is_ powerful. I know, because I have fought by her side many times. If Snape was watching your duel, he might have interfered to make you both remember a different outcome. And you told the Wizengamot that you were then going to defeat her publicly the next day, right? Snape wouldn't want you to try that, if he'd seen you lose the first time. So he _had_ to stop that battle from happening. Perhaps he was planning to save you right before you died, but Quirrell beat him to it."

"There's no _way_ he would do that without telling father about it!" Then, thinking quickly, he added: "And I resent the implication that I lost from Granger in a fair duel. Or that my father would play along with a scheme like that."

"_You_ conceded the possibility, when you challenged Granger to a midnight duel rather than a public one," she bit viciously. "And if he told your father, are you sure your father would tell _you_? You're too young to be an Occlumens."

Father _had_ removed some memory from him, as it could be used to blackmail the family...

"All right," he said. "I will need to think about all this. Thank you, Miss Greengrass, for your advice." She stood up gracefully from the chair, and left the room.


	13. Chapter 93: Little Children Grow Up, Pt2

**CHAPTER 93: LITTLE CHILDREN GROW UP, PT 2**

* * *

Sunday afternoon, not that the day mattered much here.

After almost a week in Azkaban, Hermione's life had fallen into a certain routine.

She slept during the night, guarded by the Aurors' Patronuses, as they had still not stopped protecting her. She never again woke up under the Dementors' influence, although one time the Patronus had left briefly in the afternoon.

When she woke up in the morning, she would find the night meal in her cell. Typically bread, which would keep for a bit, so she saved that for lunch. She would then do some exercises in the confined area of her cell to wake up properly, and practice spells until the bracelet told her someone was coming. Then she would put everything away and climb under her blanket.

It was usually Auror Li who brought her breakfast. He was kind, and sometimes he sat with her for a few minutes, talking about his children. Understanding how boring life in Azkaban must be, he had also slipped her a book on Thursday morning. _Tales of Beedle the Bard_. It was a children's fairy tale book, but she didn't know the stories yet, and she'd soon read it through twice. It was a pleasant relief; her anonymous benefactor had given her a lot of books, but had apparently not thought to put any light entertainment in her pouch.

She was afraid to take her wand out again until Li had gone back to the Aurors' Headquarters (since the door to her cell block was too close to the stairs to notice in time when someone came from downstairs), so she would spend the time until he had returned doing the exercises from the Occlumency book that had been in her pouch. Not that she was getting very far with that. All this _mentally pretending to be someone different_ was really, really hard. All she felt she'd really learned after several such practice sessions was that this wasn't really the sort of thing twelve-year-old children were supposed to be able to do.

Then she would continue practicing spells until it was time for lunch, and after that spend about two hours working on partial transfiguration. This was _really hard_, but she was starting to make some progress; yesterday she had successfully transfigured a square millimeter of wall into glass. Once magical exhaustion started to set in, she would move on to the non-magical books, either reading or doing exercises.

In the evening, another Auror would bring her a warm meal – healthy and nutritious like all meals here, even though it was utterly bland because no one would bother to add sugar or salt to food for prisoners who would hardly even taste it. She had wondered whether the good food was because of some ancient pre-Dementor regulation about treating the inmates well, or just to keep the prisoners healthy and suffering for as long as possible. She would then do some more Occlumency, followed by a bit more magical practice, finish off with some reading, and go to sleep.

Right now, she was doing exercises from the analysis book. And she was, surprisingly, bored.

It was amazing, she thought, how you could willingly spend hours and hours doing something, but not enjoy it when you had nothing else to do. The analysis book was _hard_. The first chapter started by defining what a natural number was, and then moved on to defining limits, and finally real numbers. She wasn't even halfway through the exercises, and they were interesting and challenging. If she'd been at Hogwarts, she would gladly have spent _weeks_ in the library working through this book. She might even have considered going to a Muggle university for some time after her Hogwarts education, just to learn more about mathematics and physics, because it was _so intriguing_.

Hermione grumpily checked her proof attempt for errors again, and spotted a subscript she had mislaid. Perhaps she could complete it with this change?

Eventually she sighed, and closed the book. It was going nowhere. She just didn't _feel_ like working, not on mathematics, nor on history or physics or Occlumency either. She wanted to go outside, take a stroll, maybe even (she shuddered at the thought) fly on a broomstick. As long as she could get out of this blasted cell.

Most of all, she wanted to talk to someone. Those two minutes with Li in the morning just weren't enough, and there was no one else to talk to. She was feeling lonely.

Today was Easter. Her parents would have been told, by now, that their daughter wouldn't come home for the holidays because she was in jail. Or would Professor McGonagall simply have lied, and claimed that she was dead? It might be kinder to them than knowing their daughter to be in Azkaban, but they were Muggles and so didn't know what the wizard prison was like.

Would they be allowed to visit her?

She desperately wanted to see them, even if it meant them seeing her sunk so deeply. She wanted to talk to them, at least over the phone. But she had no way to do that.

Well, actually...

She looked at the blazing humanoid, which stood next to the badger and lit up the room. Patronuses could be used to send messages, couldn't they? She and Harry had talked about it, before finding out that neither of them could do the charm, and theorized that the trick was probably just done by desiring someone else to know your happy thought. And she _had_ a corporeal Patronus now, she could try it.

But what could she tell them?

And if they didn't know what happened yet, wouldn't this cause Professor McGonagall to find out, and then get in trouble for not reporting the huge breach of the law that someone had given her a wand? (Because she was quite sure that Professor McGonagall wouldn't report her, no matter what.)

Was the risk too great to be worth it? She really _did_ want to talk to her parents...

A distant yell broke her out of her thinking. Very occasionally, she would hear them, the prisoners of the next block. They'd have to be yelling very loudly to be audible all the way over here. A nightmare, probably. She swallowed back the lump in her throat. Every once in a while, there was this reminder that she really had nothing to complain about. When all around you, people are cold and miserable, having nightmares in their sleep and reliving their worst memories in their minds while awake, a little loneliness just didn't compare.

... maybe there was something she could do.

It wasn't time for the evening meal yet, not by far. She should be safe for hours. It would be risky, but if the other prisoners didn't see her, they couldn't betray her. At most they could say that _someone_ had been casting a Patronus, but why would anyone suspect the 12-year-old fellow prisoner in the next cell? And supposedly the Dementors also couldn't see you, if...

"Cloak," she whispered to her pouch, and the silvery cloak jumped into her hand. She threw the cloak over her back, and saw herself disappear, as the soft song lightly touched her mind.

"_Alohomora_." The grate to her cell clicked open. She sneaked outside, leaving the grate open because she might have to run back on a moment's notice if an Auror decided to come down for whatever reason.

"_Alohomora_." The metal door followed, as she swayed just a little from the magical effort of casting the spell twice in short succession.

And there she was, in the corridor filled with flickering gas lamps, where Li had walked her to her cell. She tiptoed towards the next cell block. Being closer, she could hear the sound of sobbing, but it stopped as she (and the Patronus) came closer.

_"Stay!"_ someone inside yelled.

She stood still for a minute, replenishing her magical energy, then whispered _"Alohomora."_

Carefully, she opened the door. The smell assaulted her first. Urine, vomit... Hadn't the Auror cleaned this up when he got here a few hours ago, or was it fresh? She always tried to time her bathroom visits to avoid stinking up the cell, but these prisoners probably didn't have as much control over themselves...

In the first cell she saw, a man with horrible sunken eyes stared out of the bars. He looked so tired, so pained, that she almost lost control over the Patronus. But she pushed down on that emotion, and forced herself to look away and not think about what she was seeing too much. _You're going to help them,_ she told herself.

There was movement in the two cells left of that one, she saw. But the two cells to the right, closest to her own cell block, were still empty.

_Can you go into the fourth cell without showing yourself to them?_ she thought to the humanoid. If she left the Patronus outside the door, the Aurors might see its shine from the stairway before she felt them coming, but inside the cell block it would be safe (as long as the prisoners wouldn't be so stupid as to tell their guards about it). The Patronus just nodded, and shifted _sideways_ somehow, and then it stood in the cell next to the man with the haunted eyes.

_Stay,_ she mentally instructed, and then she closed the door, whispered _Colloportus_ and went back to her cell like a good little prisoner.

* * *

Professor Michael Verres-Evans was reading the newspaper with a frown as Harry entered the apartment on Monday morning. All post arriving in their Oxford house was automatically delivered here to Hogwarts, so it was a Muggle newspaper, but the news seemed to be on very similar lines to the _Daily Prophet_. Harry winced as he saw the headlines.

Father looked up when he saw Harry come in. "It appears," he said in a low voice, "that zombies have attacked the town of Easingwold last Saturday. Some people have videotaped it. There are also pictures of zombies walking the highways. I would normally disregard this sort of thing as sensationalist nonsense or an elaborate hoax, but..." he helplessly waved an arm, indicating his surroundings, "I realize that perhaps I should be more open to the supernatural. Is this something your people know more about?"

Harry sank down in the deep, soft sofa opposite his father. Mother, he saw, was peeking out from the bedroom door.

"I guess this is where I tell you about You-Know-Who."

"No, I don't know who."

"Lord..." Harry took a deep breath. "Voldemort," he whispered. It sent shivers down his spine, saying the name himself.

"Lord Voldemort?" Professor Verres repeated at a normal tone.

"Don't say the name!" Harry exclaimed. "Please. It's bad enough that Dumbledore and McGonagall keep using it. It just feels like... I can't even explain. We call him He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named or You-Know-Who usually."

The Muggle man raised his eyebrows. "That seems a bit extreme."

"That was him, wasn't it?" Petunia Evans-Verres had come in and sat down on the sofa next to her son. "He's the one who killed Lily. And James."

"He is," Harry nodded. "He was apparently this kind of dark wizard who tried to take over the country by terror. People fought him, of course, but it's a lot easier to break things down than to protect them. Thousands of people died, not just magical folk, but of course Muggles thought that it was just accidents."

His father nodded. "That's roughly what Petunia told me after you went to school. And then he killed Lily and James, and he tried to kill you but some accident happened and he died, right?"

"That's the story, yes. Except that, one, he's not actually dead. Two, there was this prophecy about him and me, apparently we're destined enemies and one of us is going to have to kill the other. And three, it turns out he's actually an evil genius, and I have _no idea_ how I'm going to fight him, or even what he's really trying to do."

The cup of tea mother had been holding fell to the floor and broke in pieces with a clatter. Father stared at him.

"I think your imagination is getting the better of you, son."

"No, dad." He took out his wand, pointed it at the carpet, and muttered "_scourgify, everto_". The tea stain and the broken pieces disappeared. "I am deadly serious. I didn't really believe it either, at first, but I was wrong. He really did survive, and I'm going to have to fight him someday. Sooner rather than later, probably, because people are dying. We're fairly sure he's behind the zombie attack. And he was definitely the one who framed who Hermione."

"_We?_" Professor Verres repeated. "Who's 'we'? Some friends of yours?"

"The Headmaster of the school, who's also the de facto leader of the light side of the war. Two other professors, and Moody, that's an Au- a policeman, although he's retired."

The Professor stood up, looking very angry indeed. "What the hell is going on in this school? Are your teachers actually telling an _eleven-year old child_ to fight a terrorist? Are they mad? I'm taking you home right this second."

Petunia shot her son a questioning look, which he answered with a slight shake of the head. Her voice was thin when she spoke. "They won't let us, Michael."

"They have no legal right to stop us –"

"_Right?_ You're _Muggles_," Harry bit. "You have as much standing in the magical British legal system as, I don't know, gorillas. It's not acceptable to torture or kill you, but you don't count as people either. No wizard is going to bother listening to any of your arguments." He shrugged. "And while I don't agree with that in most cases, I think this time it's for the best."

_"What?"_

"Dad, please, forget about me being only eleven for once. This dark wizard terrorist is real. He's killed off half a village full of Muggles just two days ago. How hard do you think it would be to do the same in Oxford? _He knows where we live!_ I'm not sure how safe it is here in the school, but I'm not going home, and I don't think you should either!"

The Professor was breathing heavily. "All right. We can talk about this. Are you sure he's trying to hurt you?"

"I'm not sure of anything," Harry admitted. "Least of all what he's trying to do. But _he_ knows _me_. And he _absolutely_, _definitely_, takes an interest in me. Besides, he is _mass-murdering_ people, dad!"

"Which is not your responsibility! You're a child, Harry!" He paced the room, agitated, something he very rarely did. "Prophecy or not, you are too young to be involved in a war." He paused, and visibly forced himself to restore his calm. "Don't you dare do anything to put yourself into harm's way. I will be talking with your teachers about what they're putting into children's heads."

"I'm not really a child anymore, dad." The boy sighed, and stood up from the sofa. "But I guess I'll always be one to you no matter what happens. And maybe that's okay." He went to the door. "I must go now, I'm meeting someone at eleven. But I'm sure Professor McGonagall won't mind talking to you. I'll be back for lunch."

* * *

The meeting with Lesath Lestrange wasn't very successful.

Lesath had worked his way through the books on Harry's reading list, spending every waking hour on them. Today he'd asked his "master" for explanations of some of the harder concepts.

But he still couldn't cast the True Patronus Charm.

He tried, over and over. His wandwork was perfect. And yet he failed. Harry thought he could sense it, the point where the boy failed. The little hesitation in his voice. Lesath was too afraid. Try as he might, he could never believe to his core that he had it in him to turn on death, Dementors and other evils, and win.

When the boy finally lowered his wand, there were tears in his eyes.

"I am sorry, my Lord. I have failed you."

"You haven't," Harry reassured him, even though he had to make an effort not to show his disappointment. "It was a gamble from the start. Only one wizard in ten can learn to cast the normal Patronus Charm, and I think this one is a lot harder and doesn't have the mist-form. In time, you might still learn it. It requires a pretty large change in your mind, to take to this spell. That costs time."

The boy nodded. But it was clear he didn't believe it.

"Besides," the Boy-Who-Lived added. "I don't think you need to be able to cast the spell to pass it on. If something should happen to me, you will be able to make sure that this spell is not forgotten."

The fifth-year boy's eyes widened in shock. "But surely nothing could hurt _you_?"

_I wish,_ Harry thought, but instead he just said: "I lead a dangerous life, Lestrange."

There was silence, for a while.

"If I should die," the Boy-Who-Lived spoke at last, "Then find other people to teach the spell to. Only those who cannot cast the normal Patronus Charm, even though they have tried, and their gestures are perfect. People who _don't_ seem dark or unhappy. Definitely not those who believe that blood purity makes you a superior person, or who have similar ridiculous biases against other people. They must not be willing to sacrifice other people for some greater good. And ideally, choose people who can shield their mind with Occlumency."

Lesath shifted on his feet. "Those are a lot of requirements, my Lord."

"Yes," Harry agreed. "But you will have time. I hope this will not be necessary, but if something does go wrong, it will be your task to make sure that the knowledge of this spell does not die with me."

"Yes, my Lord."

* * *

"I finished my review," father said when Harry came into the apartment for lunch. "I've just given it to your Deputy-Headmistress to post, when she came to see how we were doing. We have an appointment with her later this afternoon."

Harry nodded. "Anything you want to do before?"

The professor beamed brightly. "I would definitely like to see that library of yours."

* * *

Hundreds of thousands of books.

Bookcases reaching up to the distant ceiling, meters high, with ladders to reach the higher shelves.

Silence, except that sometimes the books seemed to rustle, even though there was no wind. There was a lone student sitting at a desk somewhere in a distant corner, but he wasn't making any sounds.

The air, saturated with the smell of old books.

"Son," Professor Verres-Evans said with a hint of awe in his voice. "I think I'm going to cry."

* * *

It was almost two hours later when Petunia – who had been quietly bored until Harry found her a book of fairy tales, which might be all about magic but that was only normal, for fairy tales – pointed out that she could really use a cup of tea before their appointment with Professor McGonagall.

As they walked back to the apartment and passed a corridor, Harry thought he heard a sharp intake of breath. It cut off immediately, and when Harry looked around, he just saw a hint of a black robe disappearing in the shadows.

It was only after he had delivered his parents to McGonagall's office half an hour later, and started trudging back to his common room, that a figure appeared before him.

"Come with me," Severus Snape said softly.

* * *

The two of them were sitting in the office of the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. The middle-aged dark-haired woman in front of them looked well-organized, firm, reliable, but none of that would ever stop Petunia from remembering that she could kill the two of them in a second if she so wished. She might not have much reason to do that, of course, but the woman was also quite capable of removing their memories of everything magic-related in their lives, something which Lily had said happened quite regularly. And as that not only included the existence of her sister, but also their son, it would be just as bad as killing them.

Michael took up the conversation. He always did the talking for the both of them.

"My son seems to be under the impression that he is destined to fight this evil genius, who killed his birth-parents, faked his own death, framed a fellow student, and is now setting zombies onto normal people." He spoke calmly, but there was an edge to his voice. You'd have to know him well to understand that he was angry.

The woman raised her eyebrows. "Did Harry say that?"

"Yes. Did his imagination run away with him?"

"No, that is pretty much accurate," the older woman said. "But I shall have to ask him about the 'faking death' part. As far as I know, Lord Voldemort survived the death of his body merely because he is immortal, not because he planned on it."

Michael opened and shut his mouth a few times, seeming lost for words, but then apparently decided not to pursue this track of conversation.

"My son is _also_ under the impression," and his tone turned more sharp, "that this is somehow _his problem_. That he will have to fight this dark wizard, and I quote, sooner rather than later. That he has to _worry_ about how he's going to do that. This it is _his_ responsibility to get his friend out of jail. And yesterday, he seemed remarkably depressed, like he was thinking that this zombie attack was somehow _his fault_."

A sad look crossed the witch's face. "I suppose that was to be expected."

Michael's eye spasmed a little, and Petunia carefully laid a hand on his leg. She had explained to him, earlier this morning, what the magical response to Muggles getting uppity was. That he _couldn't_ throw up too much of a storm, demand his rights, threaten with legal action or notify the government. He hadn't liked it much, but she had got through to him, and she hoped he would remember.

"Why," he bit, when he had control over his voice again, "have you even been _telling_ him any of these things? Does the concept of a child not mean anything to you? He is _eleven years old_. He should be _playing_ and _reading science fiction books_. Not thinking about how he's going to kill some dark terrorist!"

"We never planned to tell him," the woman said. "Not until he was fifteen _at least_. But he guessed at the truth early on, and I... didn't quite manage to hide my shock, which led him to figure out that something was going on. From there on, it has been a series of uncanny derivations, nagging and even blackmail from his side. We always knew that his childhood could not be long, but I assure you we _did_ try to shield him from too much knowledge, danger and politics for as long as we could. Unfortunately, he would have none of it."

Petunia exchanged a look with her husband. He looked as resigned as she felt. That _did_ sound like Harry indeed.

"We only invited him into our council last week, after Miss Granger was arrested," the Scottish witch continued. "He demanded to be involved, as the fate of his two best friends was at stake; and even if he hadn't, it would have been foolish not to consult him, as he knows more about both children than any of us. As it was, he made several valuable contributions, and almost managed to save Miss Granger from Azkaban." Her face took on a sad look. "Unfortunately the price was still too high."

"Five million pounds," Petunia whispered. "It would have been higher without Harry?"

The woman shook her head. "The only reason we could pay for her freedom at all is because of Harry. He found a... legal trick, to gain some leverage over Lord Malfoy. Anyway, after that, he demanded full information, and with his friends already being targeted for his sake, we could not withhold the words of the prophecy from him any longer. Within an hour, he solved a problem we've had for years, and then... Well, in hindsight we should have consulted him much earlier. Without his input, we would still not know that Voldemort was hiding right under our noses."

_What?_ Beside her, Michael blinked.

"Ah," Professor McGonagall said. "I see he hasn't _quite_ told you the finer points of the situation."

They looked at each other again.

"He gave us the two-minute version," Michael spoke. "I don't suppose you would care to fill us in on the rest?"

"Of course," Professor McGonagall sighed. "With the current situation it's not like secrecy is still an option anyway." She rung a small golden bell, and with a *pop* a creature appeared on her desk. Petunia almost jumped back in shock at the ugly little thing with its leathery skin, bat-like ears on an over-sized head and bulging green eyes.

"Lakey," the Deputy Headmistress said. "Will you fetch us some tea and coffee please? I suspect we will be here for a while."

* * *

The office of the Head of House Slytherin was a lot like the Potions dungeons. Cold, drafty-looking stones, shelves with all kinds of _things_ drifting in jars on them, books that somehow managed to look nasty despite having plain coverings and closed bottles with mysterious substances. A fire lit in the fireplace as the assassin stalked in ahead, which somehow made the room look even eerier rather than more comfortable.

And then Severus Snape sank into his chair, and suddenly turned into someone else. His face showed the strange sad look that Harry had seen only once before, in a hallway several months ago. "Please, sit down."

Harry sat down in the other chair, as the Potions Master incanted a series of privacy spells.

When the Professor was done, he spoke again, with a strange tone to his voice. "Your aunt looks well. She has... changed, since I last saw her."

Harry nodded silently, still wondering what this was about.

"I never knew that Lily made peace with her sister," the Potion's Master whispered. For a few moments, it was as though he had forgotten Harry's presence. But then he shook himself.

"I do not know how best to broach this topic, Mr. Potter, so I will simply say it... before the Dementor, you recovered your memory of the night your parents died?"

Harry silently nodded.

"If... I know it must not be a pleasant memory, but... if you could tell me what happened...?"

"Why?" Harry said. His voice was solemn, definitely _not mocking_ the pleading look that Harry had never expected to see from that person. "I wouldn't think that would be a pleasant thing for you to hear either, Professor –"

The Potions Master's voice was almost a whisper. "I have imagined it every night these last ten years."

"I –" Harry hesitated, but took a decision. It was not a request that Harry could really bring himself to deny. But he _could_ get something out of it. It was not likely that he would have many opportunities to speak to the Potions teacher alone, and he might speak more openly without the Headmaster's presence.

"Will you tell me _exactly_ how you came to learn about the Prophecy? I'm sorry to make this a trade, I _will_ tell you afterward, only, it could be really important –"

"There is little to say. I had come to be interviewed by the Deputy Headmistress for the position of Potions Master, and so I was waiting outside her office while the applicant before me, Sybill Trelawney, ended her interview for the position of Professor of Divination. Minerva had already opened the door to send her away when the prophecy came. As soon as Trelawney finished speaking her words, I fled, forsaking my chance at Hogwarts's Mastery, and went to the Dark Lord." The Potions Master's face was drawn and tight. "I did not even pause to consider why that riddle might have come to me, before I sold it to another."

"A _job interview_?" Harry said. "Where you and Professor Trelawney both happened to be applying, Professor McGonagall was interviewing, and the door just happened to be open at the right time? That seems... like rather a large coincidence..."

"Seers are the pawns of time, Mr. Potter. Coincidence is beneath them, and they are above it. I was the one meant to hear that prophecy and become its fool. Minerva's presence made no final difference to how it came about. There was no Memory Charm as you supposed. The voice of a seer has a quality, an enigma which even Legilimency cannot share. How could that be imbued in a false memory? Do you think the Dark Lord would believe my mere words? He seized my mind and saw the mystification there, even if he could not seize the mystery, and so he knew the prophecy had been true. The Dark Lord could have killed me then, having taken what he wanted – I was a fool indeed to go to him – but he saw something in me I do not know, and took me into the Death Eaters, though on his terms rather than mine. That is how I brought it about, brought it all about, from beginning to end, always my own doing."

Severus's voice had gone rather hoarse, and his face was filled with naked pain. Harry filed the information away for future analysis – there were some _very_ suspicious parts in this explanation, but he would have to go to the library to get a clearer idea of how prophecies worked. And he couldn't keep Professor Snape waiting while he thought.

Harry swallowed twice, and began recounting the memory.

* * *

Wednesday afternoon, in the Deputy Headmistress' office.

"Harry..." she was almost pleading. "I had to spend quite some time assuring your parents yesterday that we were _not_ deliberately involving you in a war." She had had good explanations, of course, because in this case they _were_ quite innocent. But she had still felt monstrously guilty explaining to the Professor and his silent but obviously perceptive wife why their bright young child had turned into a grave adult over the course of the school year.

The boy raised his eyebrows. "I do hope you're not letting them talk you into treating me like a child again. You are better than that, Professor. People are dying and _you need me_. If even a single life is lost or ruined because you withheld information for me, would that be worth it?"

It hit her. Harry always had that way of pushing her triggers. "No eleven-year-old should even _think_ about such things!"

"I can agree to that," the Boy-Who-Lived answered reasonably. "But that is not the world we live in, Professor McGonagall. I am already thinking about such things. Is it better to work from old data and consider a lot of possibilities which are irrelevant, or to focus on what is actually happening? And something _is_ happening, I can see it in the way you look and act."

How had the boy become so perceptive?

"There's been another attack." Albus _had_ told her a few days ago that she should give the boy any information he asked for. He had looked sad, when he said that, but she hadn't pressed for his reasons. "A primary school in southern Wales."

A look of dismay passed over the boy's face, and then left, as the face settled into that too-hard look again. "Any survivors?"

"Nobody died," she answered. "But the children and teachers were all unconscious when they were found, and their right legs had been cursed off. St. Mungo healers are trying whether magical healing can regrow the limbs, but Professor Dumbledore says there isn't much hope."

"Ah." The boy seemed to consider this information. "Did they go back in time to..."

"Yes," she immediately confirmed. It hadn't been foremost in _her_ mind when she heard, she was too shocked to learn about the roughly hundred and fifty children who would be maimed for life, but Albus and Amelia had a different way of thinking. "Director Bones went back in time the instant she was informed, but it was already too late; the victims were unconscious and the perpetrator was gone. We learned about it only long after the event, you see. There were no Muggleborns, Squibs or anyone familiar with our world in that village, to warn us before the Muggle authorities got there."

"Ah," the boy said again. "That's going to be hard to cover up."

She nodded. Albus had spoken heavily of the Ministry's and international concerns about that. _One_ obviously magical attack in a week was quite a disaster already, but _two_ might be enough to endanger the International Statute of Secrecy. He had added, with a grim note to his voice, that he had barely managed to stop the Minister of Magic from having all the children killed, as their deaths at the hand of some crazed killer would be far easier to explain than their survival in _this_ way.

"Thank you," the boy said quietly. "I will think about this."

"Harry, you can't do anything here. And you don't _need_ to. Why don't you leave this to Albus? He knows how to fight a war."

The boy smirked bitterly as he stood up.

"Because I don't trust his judgment."

* * *

Harry trudged back to his dormitory, frustrated.

People were dying, or getting hurt for life, and there was nothing he could do about it. Even if he _wasn't_ stuck in this school, he couldn't anticipate where the enemy would strike next, and so he couldn't stop it from happening. Nor did he have the power to do anything about the consequences. He couldn't cast a charm that would give a schoolful of cursed children back a semblance of their legs. He couldn't trace down remaining Inferi, or cast protective charms over every single Muggle dwelling in the country, And if there were political aspects to this mess, Dumbledore wasn't telling him about them.

So he stayed put, like a good little child. He spent time with his parents. He also spent a lot of time in the library, looking up spells that he could cast which might come in useful. He had nagged Professor McGonagall to sign a permission slip so he could look up information about prophecies and possession in the restricted section, but got little out of it: the books on prophecies had done little but confirm tentatively what Dumbledore and Snape had told him, whereas the books on possession were too limited and often contradictory. Quietly, in the secrecy of his trunk, he practiced speed-casting the True Patronus Charm – if it came to a confrontation, it might play into Quirrell's hands to be seen to block the Killing Curse, but it would, on the whole, still be preferable over _not_ doing so. He had _tried_ talking to Draco, but the boy seemed to be avoiding him. He still hadn't figured out a way to conclusively prove Hermione's innocence – using a Pensieve to reproduce his conversation with Quirrell _might_ help a little, but it would lead to all kinds of questions about his history with Quirrell, including the Azkaban breakout. Even if that was not an issue, Pensieve-memories could be changed, so it wasn't likely to be enough.

He practiced dueling with Neville every day, even though he didn't expect those skills to be of any use: it would be years before he'd have the sheer magical power to even be able to disarm a Death Eater. As for landing _any_ spell on Lord Voldemort, a.k.a. Quirrell, well, having gone over the possibilities it didn't seem like a wise thing to try. Never mind the chance that it would kill both of them – if their magic resonated out of control again, it might well cause a magical explosion with massive casualties. Quirrell might be able to stop that, as he had done before, but in this case he had very little incentive to be the surrendering party. It would be like a game of chicken, with incredibly high stakes.

And besides all that, of course, he had done a lot of thinking.

_Grindelwald was my dark mirror. He was what I could have so easily become, if I had given in to the temptation of believing that I was always right._

Dumbledore had told him that, months ago, when the world still seemed innocent. Like Grindelwald had been his foe, he believed that Voldemort was Harry's, and therefore Harry should understand him better than anyone else. And in a way, Harry could see that now. Despite everything, he still felt a bond with the man he had known as Quirinius Quirrell.

Had it all been an act? Or had some of his real self shown through? Harry suspected the latter. He could see how someone who, roughly, thought as Professor Quirrell had seemed to, would be willing to kill innocents to achieve some dark purpose of his own. What kindness and humanity he had shown had been a lie – and in hindsight, that was never very much to begin with – but his dry humor, cynical outlook and moments of depression might not have been.

_Why would someone deliberately become a monster? Why do evil for the sake of evil? Why Voldemort?_

He still didn't have an answer to that question. The entity who had used Bellatrix Back, Memory-Charmed Hermione Granger, nailed Yermy Wibble's family's skins to a wall and now handicapped a schoolful of innocent Muggle children was empty inside, that was certain. He felt no warmth for other people at all, and did not get affected by their suffering. And it seemed plausible, although it was painful to imagine, that Professor Quirrell could be like that –

– but not without good reason. That was the thing, really. Harry found it incredibly hard to believe that the person he thought he had known would _take pleasure_ in the suffering of others. He might not care about it, but if he merely did not care, he would not go out of his way to inflict pain on innocents without an ulterior motive.

_What does he want?_

Harry had asked Professor Quirrell that question before. And he'd gotten a pretty clear answer.

_I want Britain to grow strong under a strong leader._

_Plan iss for you to rule country._

The answer fit what he had been doing. In the guise of Professor Quirrell, he _had_ helped Harry grow stronger. He had taught him to control his temper. Had set him up as an army General and forced him to fight against impossible odds. Had helped him sow fear in the hearts of his schoolmates, when he had protected Hermione and the other heroines. He had painted him in a light that was both good and evil, light and darkness, so that Gryffindor and Slytherin would both be willing to follow him. And he had tried to get Harry to publicly defeat the Dark Lord again, with a large international audience.

_Why do evil for the sake of evil?_

If Harry had guessed correctly, the initial goal had been to set up an evil puppet for Monroe to fight. The greater the evil you defeat, the greater the hero. Yet this plan had failed, and so Monroe had disappeared, but Voldemort had gone on. He might have conquered the country easily, but he could not hope to also win the hearts of the people. There were too many who would never willingly follow a wizard who gained power by force, and thus Britain would stay divided, and not grow strong like he wanted. And so he _hadn't_ conquered the country. He had prolonged the war, become known as the most terrible dark wizard in history. The scenario was perfectly set up to make a new hero arise.

_Harry Potter.  
_

Was the prophecy a fake? Severus Snape certainly didn't seem to consider it possible, but that didn't mean it wasn't. It just meant that Voldemort would have needed to know something that Snape and the others didn't.

A one-year-old child, with a prophecy about having _power the Dark Lord knows not_, who defeated the greatest dark wizard who ever lived. Harry had read some of the books about himself, and the theories as to why it had happened were _wild_. There were enough of them to allow everyone to believe whatever they wanted. And if that child went on to defeat that same dark wizard _again_, doing the impossible _deliberately_, and not as some strange kind of magical accident... such a hero might be able to unite the country.

Why exactly would the person behind Voldemort / Quirrell / Monroe want _Harry_ to rule the country? Because he thought Harry might end up doing exactly what he wanted done? Because he believed that he could manipulate him?

Because he fully expected to be able to control him?

There _was_ something special about the Boy-Who-Lived. He had a dark side which gave him extreme deductive power, and felt a mysterious feeling of doom around his destined foe. Dumbledore had guessed that Voldemort had tried a form of mind-control that had – unintentionally – grown into him. But if it had not been intended, then why would he still want Harry to rule? Why continue the same charade and play the part of Voldemort sowing terror?

Harry had initially refused to participate in the plan to pretend-defeat Lord Voldemort, which would perfectly set him up to take a leadership role should the need arise. But his co-operation might not be required. If Voldemort officially returned, then Harry could hardly step aside. It might not happen at the International Confederation of Wizards – Dumbledore was making sure he was there every moment of the day (taking excursions back to Britain only when Time-Turned) and Moody covered the place when he was asleep – but there would undoubtedly be other opportunities. And he had the feeling this week's attacks were simply a stepping stone to his ulterior plan.

* * *

Thursday evening.

The two of them were standing on top of Ravenclaw Tower together.

Earlier that day, Harry had been surprised to see Parvati and Padma at lunch. He had plopped himself down next to Padma (he was going to have lunch with his parents, but he could be five minutes late) and given her a querying look.

It had turned out that she and her sister had been sent back to the comparative safety of Hogwarts, as their parents lived in a primarily Muggle town, and had been scared by the dual attacks. _And so it begins,_ Harry had wryly thought.

There was one advantage. Padma had also told him that she'd finished reading the books he'd given her. And before leaving, Harry had urged her to spend the rest of the day thinking about a world without death.

And now here they were. Twilight had fallen, with the stars just starting to become visible overhead.

"Why did you ask me to imagine a world without death?" she asked.

"Did you?" he asked in return.

She nodded. "I would have called it silly last week. If you can't die, you'll just grow indefinitely older and get sick and if you get cursed you're screwed _forever_. But I guess what you really meant was a world where you don't _have_ to die, right? Like in your books, people don't age, and diseases are curable, so you have eternal life _and_ eternal youth."

"Yes. That is what I meant."

She nodded again. "_That_ would be rather nice. I guess overpopulation would become a problem, but then, we could solve that, right? If we can go to other planets..." She hesitated. "Muggles haven't _actually_ done that, have they?"

"They have gone to the moon," Harry answered quietly, looking up at the half-full moon above the castle. "And some other planets in our solar system. Not any further yet, but they will. They're figuring out the underlying rules of the universe, and even without magic I think they'll find a way to at least get to Alpha Centauri within the next century. There were only two generations between the first airplane and the first moon landing, and computers are still getting twice as good every one and half year. Add magic into the mix, and I imagine we could do wonders."

"We'd have to get around the International Statute of Secrecy, though," Padma pointed out. "Because even if wizards started doing science, there wouldn't be enough of us to make that kind of progress."

"Would that be bad thing?"

"No," she said with a smile. "I guess not."

"Do you believe in it?" He kept his tone wistful, definitely not pushing. "Do you think we could do it? Unite the magical and Muggle worlds, get rid of old age and diseases, make _everyone_ immortal, travel to other stars... Can you believe in that?"

She looked up to the stars in silence for a while.

"I don't know," she said eventually. "But I'd like to try."

"Do you have any guess why I asked you to imagine such a world?"

"Because you want to built it?" she guessed.

"That is one of the reasons, yes."

"But Dementors don't really fit in that picture," she hazarded.

"No, for multiple reasons," he said with a smile. It was time, he decided. "They represent death."

The girl beside him turned her head sharply. "What?"

"The fear is just a side effect," he explained, keeping his voice calm as though he were telling her something perfectly normal. "The Patronus Charm works best for those who are not afraid of death, and can think of happy stuff instead even when a shadow of Death is standing right in front of them."

"Ah," she said. Then, after a pause, "I can see why that wouldn't work."

Harry nodded. "But there is another way. I do not fear death either. Why fear what I fully intend to defeat? And nor should you."

There was silence, for a while.

"You're quite ambitious," she said eventually.

"I know," Harry responded.

After another minute of silence, she took out her wand, and looked at it thoughtfully. It was hard to see her face, now, as darkness had fallen while they talked.

"Do I just think of that world you had me imagine, with eternal youth, and going to the stars?"

"Don't just think about it," Harry breathed. "Intend it. It is the world we will make together, you and I and Hermione, and everyone else who will join us."

She nodded, and set her feet into the pose Mr. Lupin had taught them.

"_Expecto Patronum!_"

And there was light.


	14. Chapter 94: Nihil Supernum, Pt 1

**CHAPTER 94: NIHIL SUPERNUM, PT 1**

* * *

Friday April 17th, 1992.

Hermione Granger was pondering escape.

She wasn't _really_ considering it, the otter had _told_ her not to escape, and it would put the Aurors in so much trouble if she was found missing. But the otter had told her _not to_ and that meant that it was possible, and at least she wanted to figure out how before deciding not to do it.

The Cloak was bound to help. If she could somehow get outside, she could just walk towards the shore, and the Dementors wouldn't affect her; they wouldn't even notice she was out of her cell. Also, the Aurors wouldn't see her because she'd be invisible. But the only door in the fortress that she knew of was the door in the Aurors' Headquarters, and there was no way she could get through that without it being noticed. Plus, she'd be on the roof, fat lot of good that would do.

No wait, _that_ was easy. She'd already done it. _Gecko setae_. The material would probably work on metal as well as stone, so she could transfigure gloves and just _Stick, plop_ invisibly down to the Dementors' nest. A minor silencing charm would mute the sounds.

It would be _really dangerous_, though. She had no feather-falling potion this time. And if there was wind, the cloak might get blown away while she was clinging to the wall, and she'd be exposed both to the Aurors' eyes and to the Dementors. There was no way for her to assess weather conditions from here. Besides, how would she even get to the roof, or otherwise outside?

_What would Harry do?_

No. No way. Even _Harry_ wouldn't be stupid enough to transfigure a hair into TNT and blow up the wall. Transfiguration had rules for a reason, and she felt dirty for even considering it as a remote possibility that someone else might do in the hypothetical escape situation that she was not, to be perfectly clear, at all considering really doing.

_What else would Harry do?_

General Chaos had many tricks up his sleeve; he used any remote bit of obscure magic or Muggle technology that he could think of. So now she browsed through her excellent memory for a way to make holes in the wall.

Oh. Right. It wouldn't even require Muggle technology.

So she could break out, climb down and simply walk to the shore unnoticed. That would be dangerous, but if she went down the stairs to the bottom of the building first, she could minimize the risks. Although then she might have to think of some Muggle methods to get from the island to the mainland, when she didn't even know the direction or how far she'd have to go... It would certainly be awkward to break out of Azkaban undetected, and then proceed to drown because she couldn't swim that far.

A distant yell broke her out of her thoughts once more. It was muted by the walls, but even so, it was still audible.

She trembled. It was hard enough to _not think about it_ for most of the day, when there was silence. Hard enough to just be content to study while her Patronus guarded the people in the cells next to hers, or in the corridor below her, but never both at once. Hard enough to ignore that, further down, people were suffering even _more_, and she could not help them because it would be _too dangerous_. But when she could hear the screams, it pierced right through all her mental barriers. Never mind that the scream itself meant that there was still a lot of life left in them, she wanted to _make it stop_, but to do so she'd have to take her Patronus away from the _other_ people it was protecting...

She felt it, the Patronus going out of control. She clamped down desperately on her emotions, but it was already too late. For a split second, the badger in her cell seemed to stare down, and she quickly dropped her wand. The badger resumed its normal floating as though nothing had happened. The Aurors might have noticed, or they might not have. She'd find out soon enough whether they came down, but she didn't care right now.

Tears streaked her face. The Patronus made everything so much _harder_, it strengthened your emotions of protection. How could she cast it again and not have it go out of control now? But while she couldn't control her emotions, she wasn't protecting _any_ of the prisoners, and they _all_ needed her, the ones on her own level, and one level down, and all those others whom she couldn't reach, living in nightmares day and night. If only there was a way to protect them all...

Maybe there was.

The realization hit her with the force of a tsunami. The otter had _told_ her how to do this. If she made her Patronus go bright enough, it would destroy Dementors, but she should never do that, for it would kill her.

But if she could destroy all the Dementors in Azkaban first, wouldn't that be worth it?

She could send her Patronus down right now, down into the pit. The Aurors would see it, but if she _let_ her emotions go out of control, _chose_ to protect all the prisoners right away, they might not trace its source until it was too late. And with the Dementors gone, at last the prisoners of Azkaban could have... not much a life, really, take away the Dementors and this place was _still_ worse than the worst Muggle jail... but they wouldn't be suffering any more, at least. Maybe it would help.

_I will die._

It was a scary thought. She _didn't_ want to die, she wanted to live, to see that bright future without any Dementors, without death, without needless suffering and cruel prisons and evil governments, she wanted to be with her parents and Professor McGonagall, and Harry and Padma and Hannah and Daphne... And would her sacrifice even be worth it? She was only a child, she only had a little power, if she gave all her life-force and it wouldn't have destroyed all the Dementors, then wouldn't the prisoners still continue to suffer? Would it all be in vain?

She hesitated.

And then a bird appeared in her cell.

She yelped, jumped back in fright, bashed into the wall and nearly fell over. Rubbing her head, she stared at the creature. Its eyes were bright, its shining wings flapping slowly, keeping it at eye level. It was surrounded by flames, red and gold.

_CAW!_

"Sssssh!" she shushed desperately. "What if they hear you, and come look?" How could she explain a _phoenix_ in her cell? She didn't even know how it got there.

_Caw!_

_Let's go._ That was what it meant.

"Whose phoenix are you?"

_Caw._ _Yours, if you choose._

The phoenix was here to help her, to destroy the Dementors in the pit and save all those prisoners who so desperately needed her help.

"Can you help me get down into the pit?" A Patronus was more effective if it was closer to its caster. If she was near the Dementors, the chance of destroying them all before she died would be much greater.

_Caw._ Uncertain. She bit her lip. She _could_ go out of her cell, walk down the many stairs of the building, and send her Patronus when she was at the bottom. It would be closer, but the walls were thicker there, she knew, and enchanted with many protections, or the Dementors would corrode them over time. She didn't know whether that would make a difference, but it might.

"If I break a hole into the walls here, can you fly me down?"

_Caw!_

"It will take me a few hours to do that, would you wait for that?"

_Caw!_

It would wait until she was ready. The morning patrol had only ended an hour or so ago; she had plenty of time before the Aurors would come into her cell with the evening meal. Barring unforeseen circumstances like new prisoners, there was absolutely nothing stopping her from transfiguring a hole into the wall, being flown down into the pit invisibly, and throwing all her life force into the Patronus, to destroy every single Dementor that tarnished this place, if she could hold out for that long. She could _feel_ the silvery light in her, even with her wand still on the ground, longing to burst out.

But she would die.

The destruction of its prison would bring chaos to the country. And what was worse, they'd find out she had a wand. There would be _questioning_, and those kind Aurors who'd protected her would be in serious trouble. And Harry... if they found out she'd gotten _help_, they'd be sure to trace down her anonymous benefactor...

But at least she wouldn't be able to betray anything. If she was dead, they couldn't give her Veritaserum. They could never read her mind anymore.

She swallowed then, and took her decision. Picking the wand up from the floor, she placed it against the wall, and started her transfiguration.

* * *

"Mr. Potter, I have made a formal statement to the Ministry that your Time-Turner is locked to the hours between nine and midnight."

"Sure. By all means, tell them you've changed it. The point is, under the current circumstances, it is _madness_ for me _not_ to have all protections I could possibly have."

She hesitated, but finally she nodded, and opened her hand. The Boy-Who-Lived laid the Time-Turner into it, and she brought forth her wand and did as he had asked, releasing the time-keyed enchantment she'd laced into the shell's lock.

Harry Potter flipped open the golden shell, looked at the tiny glass hourglass within its circles, nodded, and then snapped the case shut.

"Thank you. And speaking of protections, I would also like three two-person broomsticks, six phials of feather-falling potion and three invisibility cloaks to store in my pouch and give to my friends. I would be happy to buy them by owl-order, but it appears that I have no authority whatsoever over my own vault. A number of spare wands and emergency-portkeys in the form of rings, toe-rings and other items of jewelery, and two spare Time-Turners for my friends would also be helpful. If you know of any spell that could be used to block light from a certain direction, I would like to learn it. And is it possible to acquire either dynamite or more subtle, magical ways to get through walls?"

* * *

With a sigh of relief, Hermione finished her transfiguration.

She checked her watch. Ten past four. This had been a _long_ trance, but that was not surprising given that she'd only trained with partial transfiguration for less than two weeks. But it was done now, and if she did not tarry, she could be out there before the Aurors came for the evening meal. And she had better, because even if the bird could hide itself, there was no way they wouldn't notice the fact that a one-millimeter-thin section of the wall, tracing the form of a 70-by-50-centimeter rectangle, had been turned into cotton. All except for the tiny, almost invisible bit at the top, where a buckytube fiber held the metal inside the rectangle into place.

She pulled a hair from her head, and transfigured it into a knife; thin, but with a long enough blade to reach the end of the wall. _That_ was easier; just a normal transfiguration. She cut easily through the cotton. And then there was only a tiny buckytube string, holding up the heavy piece of metal, that separated her cell from the outside world.

Once she finited the buckytube, and the tiny bit of the original metal broke because it could not hold up the whole rectangle by itself, there would be a loud clang, she figured, so she set up a silencing barrier so it would not be heard outside her cell.

She took the cloak out of the pouch necklace, and carefully took the latter off her neck. She rolled the necklace into the cloak, and laid it down, invisibly, below the bench.

She was trembling, as she tried casting her Patronus again, and she had to clear her mind and repeat the incantation before it took hold, and the blazing humanoid appeared. There were only two things left to do.

She breathed, steaded her voice, and said: "Tell Harry..."

* * *

"... not likely, but I will see what I can do," Minerva concluded.

The boy looked grim. "I suppose I'll have to be content with that, for now. But why is the ministry so obstinate? Has Professor Dumbledore not explained the situation to them?"

"He tried," she answered. "Some key figures like Amelia Bones believe him, but the Minister of Magic and others do not. With those people being certain to contradict him, it would be unwise to speak out in public." She sighed. "So instead he has told people that our Defense Professor has shown signs of evil, and that he was likely the one behind the attacks, and the Azkaban Breakout. We have preciously little evidence to go on, however. Even if they did acknowledge the situation, though, I doubt they would see the need to guard your friends with Time-Turners. Most Aurors don't have Time-Turners, only senior Aurors are even _aware_ of them, and the Ministry keep close tabs on who possesses one. And while the Ministry would not object to a light-diversion charm, even I don't understand how it would help you."

The boy shrugged. "Blinding enemies to get away without getting hit myself, to name an example. Most shields –"

And then she almost jumped back in shock at the sudden light, she'd only seen _that_ kind of brightness once before, as a blazing silver humanoid appeared in her office.

"Harry," it said, in Hermione Granger's voice. "Someone gave me a wand, and books, and... People are suffering here, and they need help. So I'm about to cast your Patronus Charm, and not hold back. I will die, but maybe it will help."

Minerva gasped. Harry Potter sat rooted to his chair in horror, as the humanoid continued:

"I'll leave the books in my cell, below the bench. Please say goodbye to my parents for me, I don't dare tell them myself. And to my friends, to S.P.H.E.W. and my army. Thank you for everything, Harry. You were always my best friend. I'm sorry."

"No! Wait!" Harry shouted, but the Patronus had already turned back and disappeared, it hadn't been instructed to wait for an answer.

He turned to her, then. "We've got to _do_ something! I didn't mean for her to kill herself, that was _my_ job, damn it!"

She was shaken and struggled for words, but she kept calm. "This seems a bit over my head." What could she do to stop the girl, from here? "_Expecto Patronum_." The silver cat appeared.

"Go to Professor Dumbledore, and tell him: An emergency has come up. I need you here immediately."

* * *

The Patronus blasted back into the cell, and said in a strange voice, which she guessed might be her own: "Harry potter says: No!"

She shook. She was _scared_. The wand slipped from her fingers, and the Patronus went out, leaving only the lesser light of the badger.

_Caw?_ the phoenix asked.

She bent down and picked up the wand again. This was no time for hesitation. The other prisoners needed her. She took a deep breath, pushed aside all those fears, and forced down the sick feeling in her stomach. The last seconds of her life ticked away as she called back the will to protect _everyone_, pictured the bright world that they could make – perhaps she wouldn't be part of it, but this first step would contribute – and pointed her wand at the wall.

"_Finite Incantatem._"

With an enormous _crash_, the metal fell onto the floor before her.

She grabbed the phoenix's tail in her left hand, bent down low enough to fit through the hole, and launched herself off the edge. As she fell – the phoenix soaring down together with her, bringing her right over the center of the pit, the unmitigated fear of more than a hundred Dementors washed over her, but she was not afraid. She pointed her wand straight down.

"_Expecto Patronum!_"

And the world exploded in a burst of silver light.

* * *

Tick.

Tick.

It was taking _too long_, every second's delay might mean it was already too late...

Tick.

And then a burst of flame announced Dumbledore's arrival in the office.

"Professor, we need to get to Hermione _now_! She's going to destroy all Dementors, and she'll die, and I _have_ to help!"

Albus Dumbledore didn't argue, he just grabbed the boy by the arm, and with a burst of fire they were in Azkaban. There was a small hole in the wall, just enough for a child to fit through if she curled up. And on the other side of the hole –

Harry didn't hesitate. He scrambled down to the floor, pointed his wand right at the center of the supernova outside, and yelled "_Somnium!_"

The light disappeared.

* * *

Li jumped back from his chair as suddenly light flooded in through the window. Silvery light, as though from a Patronus, but _outside_...

"What the –" Bahry exclaimed, and then they all jumped back as the light burst through the window, shining like the sun, and they could not see, but they could hear it all too clearly.

Phoenix song.

The light almost blinded Li even with his eyes shut tight, he could _feel_ it on his skin, and his heart filled with joy and release at the light and the song. It was terror and beauty, joy and agony, as he fell to the floor and lay there for long seconds, his whole being vibrating with the song.

And then, almost as suddenly as they had come, the light and the song both cut off.

All three Aurors were lying on the ground. They looked at each other in confusion.

It was Gerard McCusker who first ran to the window and looked down. He turned back to them in a confused horror. "Where have they gone?" But Li had already known. Something felt... _right_ that had always been wrong when he was here.

"I'm calling Director Bones," Bahry One-hand grunted. "Call back your Patronus, Mike. She'll probably be here five seconds after I give the alarm."

* * *

The light disappeared.

There was no feeling of emptiness.

Behind him, Dumbledore was casting incantations in something that sounded like Latin, and then he grabbed underneath the bench, and Harry saw the cloak and pouch appear in the old man's hands.

"The Dementors are gone. I do not sense them anymore," the Headmaster said. From the folds of his robes, he produced a broomstick somehow, which he made invisible with a wave of his wand and pushed into Harry's hands. Then he threw the cloak over him. "Go. Go now, while they are too preoccupied with Miss Granger and the other prisoners to notice you. Use the portkey in your game of cards when you're a few miles away, after twenty minutes or so. Then let whoever is there help you get back to my office in Hogwarts, and meet me there half an hour ago. I will take care of this."

Harry looked out of the small hole, towards where Hermione was lying. Was that... a phoenix by her side? But Dumbledore was right, he should hurry. He could find out the truth later. "Don't change her memories."

"Her memories will betray that she had your cloak, and that will implicate you."

"So be it. A large part of her personality ties in to her brilliant memory, and the things she learned in the last two weeks might be important. She's already got two fake memories, I don't want any more of that stuff in her head. If she cannot rely on her memories, it might destroy her!"

"Very well. But now _go_."

He went. Nobody saw, or stopped him.

* * *

Albus Dumbledore cast a few spells to weaken the protections on the pouch, and carefully placed it back beneath the bench. Then he turned himself and Fawkes invisible, widened the gap in the wall briefly to pass through, and let the phoenix fly him to the window of the Aurors' Headquarters two levels up. The room was already filling up with people, Auror after Auror entering through the cabinet. He selected a suitable trio of not-overly-experienced Aurors, quietly flew right behind them, and turned visible with a burst of fake flame.

Wands turned on him. "Hold your fire," Amelia Bones's voice commanded. "I was _wondering_ whether we'd be seeing you here, when I got the message less than a minute after you were called away."

"The Potter boy warned me," he explained simply. "He said he had information that Miss Granger might be about to do something very foolish."


	15. Chapter 95: Nihil Supernum, Pt 2

**CHAPTER 95: NIHIL SUPERNUM, PT 2**

* * *

When Herimone's eyes opened, and she saw the gray air with a tiny bit of sunlight filtering through, her first emotion was surprise.

_I'm... alive?_

And then she registered what else was in the limit of her vision. Six Aurors in their purple robes, surrounding her. All of them looked very grim. And all had their wands pointed at her, ready to fire.

_Oh no..._

"Hermione Granger," the foremost one spoke. "You are under arrest for jailbreak, attempted assisted mass-jailbreak, and destruction of national weapons."

She was tied up, she realized. And of course they had taken her wand. But on her shoulder, bright and warm, the phoenix still sat.

"You will be taken in custody in the Aurors' rooms in Azkaban," the man continued. "Where you will be interrogated under three drops of Veritaserum."

"_No!_" she gasped in horror. Of _course_ this would happen. "Not veritaserum! It's dangerous!"

The man smirked, obviously unimpressed. "For your helpers, certainly. For yourself I daresay it will hardly matter."

"No! It's..." she searched her mind for something to say, remembered Professor Quirrell's formulation in the special lecture. "I used magics not to be spoken of with those who cannot cast them!"

The man just smirked. "Nice try. Take her up."

They levitated her from their brooms, onto the roof and toward the door to the Auror Headquarters. Hermione desperately tried to think of ways to _make them not do this_. But what could she say that they would listen to? She was a convicted attempted-murderess who had just broken out of prison, she didn't _get_ to frame the conversation or pose any conditions. And ten days of Occlumency training from a book would be nowhere near enough to resist Veritaserum.

And then they took her through the door, and she saw the ancient wizard, standing among several men and women in Auror garb, as he gazed at her with a look of concern in his eyes.

"Professor!" she yelled. "Help! Please tell them they _must not_ make me explain what I did!"

The Auror guiding her pushed her in a chair roughly, and the ropes binding her shifted to include the chair. "Give it up," he sneered.

"What's this?" A woman stepped forward. Hermione recognized her from the trial. She had been one of the few to vote against imprisonment.

"The girl obviously doesn't want to reveal her helpers, Madam Bones," the leading Auror said. "She claims she has dangerous knowledge, so we shouldn't interrogate her."

"That is easy to test, Auror Gutierrez. When a witch or wizard tells you they know of magic that is not to be spoken of, you do not force them to, unless you _know_ they are lying. A single drop of Veritaserum will be enough to confirm."

The bottle was brought forth. "Open your mouth, girl."

She did so. _One_ drop would be fine. She could at least still refuse to answer, then. She tasted the slightly-bitter liquid on her tongue, and swallowed.

"Now, Miss Granger," the woman asked, in a crisp voice. "Would it be hazardous for me, personally, if I were to give you a second drop?

Could the woman cast a Patronus? It was likely, if she had come to Azkaban at all, that this was the case. "I think so."

The woman – Madam Bones, Susan's "auntie", she knew – turned to the other Aurors. "We will keep it to the single drop. I will perform the interrogation myself, just in case. Do you have any cell blocks free? Without holes in the wall, that is?"

"A block, third level," the one-handed Auror Hermione had only met once before answered. The woman nodded, and Hermione floated loose from the chair at a flick of her wand. "Let's go." She turned to the bird, then. "And I suppose you may fly along. Not that your kind cares about permission."

* * *

Harry quietly cursed the situation as he sped away from Azkaban in a random direction. _Why now?_

He'd known the plan to help Hermione was dangerous from the start. He'd seen half a dozen ways for it to go wrong: they could have been caught going to Azkaban, the Aurors might have suspected something was up because Hermione wasn't going insane, they could have caught her reading when she wasn't expecting it, she could lose control of her Patronus... but it hadn't occurred to him that she might do something like this.

_You really should have seen it coming,_ Gryffindor pointed out. _You told _Hermione Granger_ how to destroy Dementors, and then left her inside Azkaban. If anything, we should be surprised that it took her so long__._

Hermione had done the right thing, the thing Harry should have done a long time ago. The frustrating part was how close his careful planning had come. Just yesterday, Padma had managed to perform the True Patronus Charm, and they had spent the rest of the evening considering their options. In a week, he could have bought Hermione out of Azkaban; with the promise of asking Hermione's parents for the money, Dumbledore would likely have consented. And then, with three True Patronus casters and Lesath helping out with sleeping hexes, they could have attacked Azkaban without dying. Today, Padma had started brewing Polyjuice Potion. In a month, when the potion would be ready, they could launch their attack together. The plan wasn't complete, but they'd have a month to refine it, prepare, and look up relevant spells. Four children, polyjuiced as toddlers, would fit together under the cloak. If they got caught, Harry could take all the blame – Padma had found an old spell, binding people in servitude to a Noble House, which would legally exonerate them from anything Harry ordered them to do. And if anyone could deal with the political fallout that would undoubtedly follow, it was the Boy-Who-Lived, scion of a Noble House, who just so happened to be in debt to Lord Malfoy by such a significant amount that the man would have a powerful motivation _not_ to press for his execution or life-long imprisonment.

Hermione did not have those protections.

_But she seems to have a phoenix now, which is a rather powerful symbol in itself,_ Ravenclaw pointed out. _And we only had half-hearted plans. How sure are you that you could have kept the others out of trouble? How sure that three Patronuses could have taken down Azkaban without anyone dying, or without the Aurors stopping us too early? How sure that Lesath would have been prepared to come willingly, not just because we asked? And if we truly consider Hermione our equal, isn't it better to have a 100% chance of trouble for Hermione than a 20% chance for each of Hermione, Padma and Lesath and 80% for ourselves?_

_The prisoners are safe now,_ Gryffindor added. _Would you really have preferred them suffering for another month?_

_Besides,_ Slytherin spoke. _It will be significantly easier to achieve our political goals if we are not perceived as irresponsible. As it is, we will not need to go into debt, and in the aftermath of this, it should be easy to approach other countries and offer to get rid of their Dementors. Will that not be worth it?_

Harry gritted his teeth, and his inner Hufflepuff spoke in one voice with the central Harry as they answered.

_Not unless Hermione survives._

* * *

Amelia Bones levitated the girl into the middle cell of the designated cell block, locked the grate, and cast _Bulbali_. Three bulbs of soft yellow-white light appeared in the air, illuminating the area. Then, she waved her wand, and the ropes binding the prisoner fell away.

"I am sorry for the harsh treatment, Miss Granger," she said, in a gentler tone than she had used before. Her niece had told her about Hermione Granger, who was a friend of hers, and it had sounded very much like, well, like the kind of girl to whom a phoenix would come to help other prisoners, and not like a crazy murderer. "I realize that you are not a bad person. But you have shown magics today that should have been impossible, and caution seems prudent, even when you are wandless. Would you see any way of escaping if I allowed your phoenix into the cell with you? Phoenixes cannot use their particular Apparition-like magic within the boundaries of Azkaban."

The girl shook her head. "I don't think I can do anything without a wand."

Amelia nodded, and reopened the grate for a moment. The phoenix flew in and settled itself in the girl's lap. She'd have to check what the protocol said about prisoners with phoenixes – as fas as she knew, the question hadn't come up since Azkaban was first built – but for now, she didn't want to deal with the ruckus of keeping the creature away from its master.

"Now, there's a lot of questions I have for you." She took her notebook and ballpoint pen from her pocket. Muggle technology could sometimes be very _practical_, for example when you didn't want to carry around an ink well. "And while I won't give you any more Veritaserum, don't think you'll get away with not answering a question, we have procedures for that. First of all, what _was_ that spell that you used to destroy all the Dementors here?"

"It's a version of the Patronus Charm," the child whispered.

"Did you discover it yourself?"

She shook her head.

"Who, then?"

"Harry Potter. He didn't want to tell me at first, because it was too dangerous, but he gave me a note to explain it in case I ever needed it. I read it when I was here."

"I see. So I guess you're not going to tell me how you did that."

She shook her head again. "That would be a really bad idea."

"Very well. Will you tell me, then, how you got your hands on a wand?"

The girl took a deep breath. "There was an otter –"

* * *

A sick, twisting feeling, like a thousand wriggling worms, was squirming in Li's stomach.

He knew what was going to happen next. He'd known from the beginning that they couldn't keep protecting the child forever. Sooner of later, the massive breach of protocol would be discovered. And then heads would roll, starting with his. They had all been part of it, but Li had started the whole thing and he would step up and take all the blame. He'd planned that from the first day, when he found the others joining in, and they had all known that he would. He had counted on getting a dishonorable discharge, even though he quietly suspected that Madam Bones would be understanding; the others would not have much more to fear than a formal warning. And that was worth it, to be able to look into the mirror and see a man with some shred of honor left.

But _this_... This was rather more severe. Someone had smuggled a wand to the girl, and she had used it to break out and somehow _destroy all Dementors_ and nearly allowed other prisoners – dangerous ones – to escape, and the fact that that was supposed to be completely impossible didn't do anything about the point that she would not have been able to do it if there hadn't been a Patronus in her cell day and night.

Leela glanced at him briefly, an unreadable look on her face. Every once in a while one of his colleagues would look over. Guilty, pitying looks, which nevertheless admitted of no doubt: he would still take all the blame. One target would be enough to take Lucius Malfoy's anger at hearing about the events surrounding his prisoner. One Auror who would stand trial alongside the child. _She_ would undoubtedly receive the Dementor's Kiss, phoenix and obviously good intentions or not. Was the same fate reserved for him, for unwittingly accommodating the outbreak? Or would he be sent back to Azkaban, to serve as a prisoner instead of a guard? It was scant comfort that there were no Dementors around the place anymore. He knew that it would not last long.

The six of them – the Aurors who had been in their waking period at the time of the Event – were sitting together in the Aurors' Headquarters, keeping a studious look at the screens showing the Azkaban surroundings, which had just been extended to also show Disillusioned objects. So bad were the wards of the prison, now that its Dementors were gone, that to see what was happening, they had little better to rely on than their eyes. The Ministry's best casters were strengthening the wards, but it would still take _days_ to get something resembling actual security again. Other Aurors were patrolling the halls, or flying around the building. But the Azkaban Aurors were kept here, together, undoubtedly by design. It would not be long, now, until Director Bones returned, and placed them all under arrest.

Li waited.

* * *

The child finished explaining about the mysterious memory.

"I see," Amelia said slowly. And she did. The memory-plant was well-done. Not only did it completely hide the identity of the girl's benefactor, it _also_ reinforced the idea in her mind that someone might have memory-charmed her before. If required to state again under Veritaserum whether she had tried to kill Draco Malfoy, Amelia suspected the girl would say no. Not that this was important enough to warrant testing, right now. There were more pressing matters, little though she liked them.

"What concerns me is how you managed to cast your Patronus. Even with a wand, your magic should have been drained in your sleep, and you look _far_ too mentally healthy for a first-year child who has spent the last week and a half exposed to Dementors, even only during the nights. You had Auror protection, didn't you?"

The girl fidgeted. But she had to answer, just like Amelia had _had_ to ask, even if she completely understood why some Azkaban Aurors would have sent a Patronus to guard the child during their hours. She might have done the same in their place, but the Minister of Magic, Lucius Malfoy and other important officials would never accept a non-prosecution in this case.

"I didn't _need_ Auror protection," the child said eventually, weighing her words exactly. "I could sleep in the cloak."

Amelia's hand paused on the paper. "Cloak?"

* * *

Harry couldn't check his watch, not without getting out from under the cloak, and that would just be stupid. But he was pretty sure he'd flown for twenty minutes at _least_, more likely half an hour. So he halted the broomstick in mid-air, put his hand in his pouch and whispered "deck of cards".

Oh. Right. This was going to be tricky without seeing them. He carefully removed the cards from their carton, and then put both the cards and the carton back into the pouch. Then he whispered "King of Hearts".

A playing card shot into his hand. Taking a deep breath, he tore it in half.

* * *

The girl had been given the Cloak of Invisibility, which had shielded her from the Dementors' gaze. She had left it in her cell, wrapping it around the pouch. Which was _interesting_, as the cell had been searched while the girl was brought in for questioning, and only the pouch had been found. It was a moderately powerful device, but her best spellcheckers had nevertheless been able to find the secret enchantment on it.

It was quite obvious that the girl was hiding something, and Amelia had a pretty good idea what that was. But she made very sure not to ask questions that couldn't be dodged. The girl's tone and little hesitations might give the truth away, but the _words_ were innocent enough, and those were the only ones she needed to transcribe. It might not be entirely proper, but she would honestly be able to say that she had written Granger's exact words down, and the girl would be able to confirm that much under Veritaserum.

"So," she summarized in the end. "You have told me what you know of the night of your arrival, and I have a pretty good idea of how you managed to resist the Dementors' drain. Now, tell me about today."

"I just couldn't bear it anymore," Hermione Granger answered. She looked Amelia straight in the eyes. "People should not be fed to Dementors, no matter what they've done." Her voice had grown stronger, commanding, like you wouldn't normally expect to hear from a twelve-year old child. "And I realized that there was something I could do about it. I thought it would kill me, but that would be worth it. And then there was suddenly a phoenix in my cell."

Amelia nodded. She had heard a little of phoenix-lore, although no phoenix had ever come to her. "And I bet the creature encouraged you. But a phoenix could not get you out of the building. How did you make that hole?"

The girl bit her lip. "I'm not sure I can say."

"You're _not sure_? Would it be dangerous for me to hear?"

"I don't know! I had to promise not to tell anyone, but I don't know why not."

"I see. Who did you promise?"

She hesitated, but then lowered her eyes. "Professor McGonagall."

_Interesting._ Albus Dumbledore was sure to know more about this. "Very well. What happened after you created the hole?"

"The phoenix took me outside, carried me down to the pit, and I cast my spell. I was _sure_ it would kill me. I was _supposed_ to die, so I wouldn't... Anyway, it flew me down so I would be as close to the Dementors as possible. I _felt_ myself fading, but somehow my strength kept coming back, but the Patronus only got larger and I couldn't control it anymore even when I stopped feeling the Dementors, and... And then I must have passed out."

Amelia nodded again. "I suspect the phoenix sustained you, crying on you from above, and thereby stopped you from passing out earlier or dying." _For a while, at least_, she mentally added.

"I didn't know it would do that."

"Few people do, beforehand. When did you contact Harry Potter?"

She started, at that. "Just before I finished the hole. I wanted to say goodbye."

Amelia noted that down, too. "I think I've got a pretty good overview of the events now. Did anything else happen that you think I would like to know about?"

She stated the question very deliberately, hoping that the girl would pick up the hint.

"I also sent my Patronus to the other prisoners in my corridor and the corridor below a few times," Hermione confessed.

Another note. "Anything else?" The girl shook her head. "I don't think that anything else happened that you would want to know." She smiled very weakly at that.

"Then I suppose we are down to the question of your anonymous benefactor. I know you must hate telling me, but do you know who it was?"

She hesitated, for a moment. "I don't _know_ who it was."

_Nice try._ "Who do you _think_ it was?"

The girl bit her lip and rocked back and forth, but she knew she couldn't escape answering the question. "Harry."

Amelia Bones sat back. "Harry Potter is a first-year child. He does not have the sheer power to break through the walls of the fortress and restore them afterwards, never mind making a pouch like yours. I imagine he'd have trouble even getting out of the school." But Hermione Granger was intelligent, wasn't she? She would have known this. "Tell me _why_ you suspect him."

"He would do anything to save me. He always does. Unless I tell him not to."

"As you did in the trial." She had had her doubts, from the beginning, whether that was really a bluff like Albus Dumbledore had claimed. Obviously this child had fully believed the boy. And the threat had just been a little _too_ mad to expect to be taken seriously, even for an 11-year-old who had just promised House Malfoy his enmity. Too mad, unless he fully expected to be able to follow up on it. "Any other reasons?"

"The otter knew about the Patronus Charm, it warned me about the dangers, and Harry never told _anyone_, he only gave me that piece of paper."

"But you also knew about the Patronus Charm, and you do not remember putting the books and the wand into the pouch in the first place. So you were obviously Obliviated. It could simply be that you tried casting the Patronus Charm before you were Obliviated, almost died, and then left this as a warning to yourself."

"That's possible," Hermione conceded. But she didn't seem to believe it. Interesting. "Any further reasons?"

"The science books. Harry has _lots_ of those. And one of them was on timeless physics, and, and Harry uses that, in a special magic of his that I shouldn't talk about."

_Which might have something to do with the hole in the wall _or_ the Patronus,_ she thought. _Or something else. Just how many things has the boy discovered?_

"Did you ever see him with any of those books?"

"No."

Amelia Bones nodded slowly. It was a reason for _suspicion_, but it wasn't evidence, it would never stand up for the Wizengamot. If the girl was right, and the Boy-Who-Lived had played a part in her rescue, then he was certainly very cunning for a first-year child. That, or his helpers had been.

"Any other reasons?"

"He has an invisibility cloak. I used to think that it was the Deathly Hallow, but then, the one I got felt differently."

"But you think it was the same one after all?"

"I don't _know_ what I should think!" the child exclaimed. "How do I even know whether my memories are real?"

It would be checkable, at least, whether the boy still had his cloak. Two weeks might be too brief to buy a new one, as rare as they were. Although, given the pouch, a fairly powerful wizard must have been involved anyway.

A name came to her mind then. _Albus Dumbledore._ The weak-hearted old fool might well have cared enough about the innocent child to come to her aid. Would he have taken that kind of risk? It seemed a bit foolhardy, even for him, to risk everything for a Muggleborn child, bright and sweet and brave, but ultimately not _important_, not even a pawn in the war that was lying before them. But then, would it be a risk to him? Nothing in all that Hermione knew could possibly identify the witch or wizard who had helped her. Indeed, if it was Dumbledore, he had even cast the pouch's protections weaker than he could have.

"Any other reasons?" The girl obviously wasn't going to volunteer the most incriminating parts while there were other answers she could give. Three drops of Veritaserum were a lot more _convenient_ when interrogating suspects, but then, there were some upsides to not having the girl forced to blurt out any relevant details she could think of.

"No," Hermione whispered.

Madam Bones stood up. "Thank you for your explanation. I shall now go back and discuss what must happen."

And she stood up and left the cell block, locking the metal door behind herself.

* * *

"Who's there? Show yourself!"

Harry blinked in disorientation as he arrived in a different place. A weathered-looking room, but serviceable, with a fire crackling merrily in the fireplace. And in front of a chair, his wand drawn, stood –

Harry drew off his cloak. "Mr. Lupin?"

"_Harry?_" the faintly scarred man in the old clothes asked with a start. "What are you doing here? Did you run away from Hogwarts?"

"No, I – it's complicated. I need to get _back_ to Hogwarts. Are you the one who sent me the cards?"

"Cards?" Mr. Lupin asked, confused. "No, I never sent you anything. But I can send back you to Hogwarts, after I make a few checks that it's really you." He started speaking incantations.

Harry wasn't just going to leave it at that. "Where am I?"

"_Polyfluis Reverso!_" said the man. "This is the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. _Metamorphido!_"

The headquarters of Dumbledore's allies? But... Santa Claus had always seemed _opposed_ to Dumbledore. And Professor Snape had said that the portkey just led to an empty house. But he was _in_ the order of the phoenix, so he must have known more...

Could _Snape_ have been his anonymous ally? But Snape was supposedly loyal to Professor Dumbledore, or at least had been so at the start of the year, when Harry had been sent his father's cloak with the first note from Santa Claus. And why would _he_ have James's invisibility cloak? He had hated James, and Lily had not spoken to him since they were in school. Besides, Dumbledore had told Harry to use this portkey. He must have known, too.

_If you see a plot, look at who ends up benefiting, and assume it was the intended result._ That was one of Draco's lessons. He had never really used it, but, he realized now, he should have. The note with the Invisibility Cloak had told him to be suspicious of Dumbledore. The later note had repeated those warnings – for strange reasons, Dumbledore was not the kind of man who would take a child's heirloom away, no phoenix would accept that. If Dumbledore did evil, then it was because the war had driven him to weigh his actions in logical, heartless calculations. And so, the only effect of the vain warning with the cloak was that Harry had ended up trusting Dumbledore _more_.

"_Veritas Occulum!_ And that's the last one, you really are who you seem to be. Would you like to go back now or is there anything you want to discuss first?" The man's face showed concern. Of course, he would not have expected Dumbledore's pet hero, who was supposed to be carefully guarded in the school, to pop in all of a sudden.

He really should go, if he wanted to meet Dumbledore half an hour before his departure of Azkaban and still have five hours of his Time-Turner remaining just in case. But he also wanted to know.

"You were a friend of my father's, right?"

The man nodded.

"Do you recognize this cloak?"

"Of course," Mr. Lupin said. "I've been under it quite a few times."

"Do you know whether Professor Dumbledore had it in his possession when my father died?"

Mr. Lupin frowned. "Yes, he did. Didn't he say so when he gave it to you?"

_Why me?_ Harry thought with a mental groan. But instead he just shrugged, and said: "The Headmaster asked me to meet him in his office. Do you think you could send me there?"

* * *

"Why am I not surprised to see you here, old meddler?"

Albus Dumbledore had been waiting for her in the corridor. "I care for the child. And it seems that your Aurors have the situation well under control."

"That remains to be seen." Amelia moved her wand. "_Expecto Patronum._ Tell Scrimgeour to pass the warning to all patrolling crews that an intruder might still be in Azkaban. Make sure _no one_ goes in or out without permission."

"You believe that she had help?"

"She had an invisibility cloak. A special one, apparently, that kept Dementors from affecting her. It disappeared from her cell in the five minutes between her escape and the cell being searched."

"Ah. Do you mean _the_ Cloak of Invisibility? For that is the only one I know of which might have any such power."

She gave him a searching look. _That was quite an inference._ "What do you know about that?"

"The Invisibility Cloak of Ignotus Peverell, long-since lost track of, is one of the three Deathly Hallows. Many properties are ascribed to it, although few confirmed. Depending on the source you read, it hides the wearer even from Death's gaze, provides impenetrable shields and stops aging in whoever wears it. I would not believe those so lightly, but almost certain is that it does not degenerate with time, cannot be directly targeted by magic, knows its owner, and, some way or other, always finds a way back to him or her. I have not heard anything about Dementors, but such an ability would certainly not be incongruent with the various tales of its powers."

If _that_ were true... Could the cloak have somehow taken itself back to its owner? Or was Dumbledore just trying to sell her onto some idea to hide the far more obvious truth?

"You suspect me?" the old wizard asked at her searching look.

"I would not put it past you to help an innocent child, no."

"I appreciate the sentiment, Amelia, but in this instance I am quite guiltless. Please, feel free to search me. I do not have the Cloak."

"I would not ask –"

"But you think. I do not mind it, and it might be better to clear this up immediately. I realize that I _am_ an uninvited intruder in this place."

She nodded, and started her incantations.

"So tell me," the old wizard asked carefully. "Is there any chance, for the girl?"

"You know the law, Albus. _Any_ escape from Azkaban is punished with the Dementor's Kiss. _No excuses._ There won't even be a trial. The only reason not to do it on the spot is that we may need to interrogate her further, and that the only Dementor left in Britain is the one we keep in the Ministry. The certainty of the Kiss for any escape is one of the most important things that keeps the prisoners and their friends from ever contemplating escape: the knowledge that worse is possible, and likely."

"She did not mean to escape, I think. The Potter boy seemed convinced that she was going to die."

"Intent is not the point. She left her cell, so she _did_ escape." She sighed. "I want the girl to lose her soul as little as you do, Albus. I don't think we have ever done that to someone with a phoenix, let alone a child who shouldn't have been here to begin with. But unless the honor of a Noble House is involved, my hands are tied. I don't suppose you have kept any Noble connections hidden?"

"None. I am certain that the young scion of Potter would accept her service if she were to swear to him, but –"

"– the Wizengamot will not accept that if the contract was not in place at the time of the crime," she finished his line. "But speaking of Harry Potter, young Miss Granger _did_ seem to believe that he was the one who gave her the wand and the cloak."

"You would have him executed too?" the old wizard spoke with a pained voice.

"No. In fact, I don't think we can prove anything against him. And since the Boy-Who-Lived enjoys a certain popularity, a mere accusation before the Wizengamot will not lead to a conviction, no matter how much pressure Lord Malfoy might apply. But if he were indeed involved, if we could _prove_ that, then he could ask to have his case brought before the Wizengamot. And in that case, I suppose that I, as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, could judge the girl's crime to be inextricably linked to the boy's, and relinquish the right of judging her to them."

"Ah."

They walked in silence through the last corridor. The old wizard looked conflicted.

"You consider asking him for a confession?" She wasn't sure whether she wanted it. The hope of seeing the girl released, or at least saved from the gruesome fate of the Dementor's Kiss, was enough to make her wish for it. But what would the two children's chances be? If they involved the boy, the most likely path would lead to _two_ innocent souls being lost.

"It would be foolish to the extreme," the Hogwarts Headmaster bit. "We need him; if anything the last week has made that clear. Lord Voldemort has returned, and he has started lashing out, for purposes unknown. Harry Potter is the only one who has a chance of defeating him for good." He sighed. "But he has made it clear that he does not wish to follow my command, and he cares about the Granger girl more than anything in the world. Who am I to make the choice for him?"

He gestured with his wand, and the silver phoenix sprang into existence. "Go to Harry Potter," he instructed, "and say this: Harry. As you feared, Miss Granger has attacked Azkaban, and destroyed all its Dementors. She has survived, given testimony, and will likely be executed before the weekend is over. There will be no trial, as she is no part of a Noble House. Tell me, Mr. Potter. Were you involved in this?"


	16. Chapter 96: Nihil Supernum, Pt 3

**CHAPTER 96: NIHIL SUPERNUM, PT 3**

* * *

Traveling by Floo was not quite as unsettling as portkeys, but it would take some getting used to all the same. Harry spun and spun through green flames, until suddenly all motion halted and he almost fell over at the shock. Then he quickly stepped out of the fireplace, just in case.

The Headmaster's office was empty, save for the many sounds. Harry took out his – thankfully unlocked – Time-turner, and spun it once.

"Hello Harry." The old wizard was sitting at his desk, looking at a golden hourglass he held in his hands. "Before I speak, I must know: have you received my message yet?"

"Message? No, what message?"

"Time will make that clear." The Headmaster put the hourglass down onto the desk. "For now, there are a few things we must discuss. I have already used four turns of my Time-Turner today, and would prefer not to go further back for now. In twenty minutes, I must bring you back to Minerva, as though you never left. Have her seal your Time-Turner again and then leave the room instantly. After that, you _must_ be seen. Make sure that people – ideally other students, who are not Occlumenses – know where you are every moment until you receive my message. Not your parents. We do not want to involve them, especially not your mother, as to stain Lily Potter's reputation is to stain yours."

"Would that really give me an alibi? I mean, the Ministry know that I have a Time-Turner, right?"

"They know that it is locked to the hours of nine to midnight, and that Time cannot be looped inside Azkaban. That means that my Patronus can only have reached the youngest version of you, no matter what I asked of it, and that only your youngest version could have been in Azkaban."

"Ah," Harry said, quickly calculating the implications. "That would work. Professor, what happened there?"

The old wizard shook his head. "I cannot tell you. Not yet. But after you receive the message, find a place away from the public eye. Leave invisibly, and come to my office. The password is _Fizzing Whizzbee_. You will be able to go back in time after nine as though you never left."

"All right..." Harry was really starting to get worried now. "You _really_ can't say...?"

"You will know soon enough. But first, speaking of going invisible..." He opened a drawer, and took out a small package. "This is a high-quality Invisibility Cloak, designed to look and feel just like the one Hermione Granger remembers you having. I have obtained it from a friend who, I am certain, will not betray us. The additional enchantments, I performed myself."

Harry opened the package, and took out a cloak that looked exactly like his own. It tingled, and felt warm on his skin. He threw it around himself and disappeared, the cloak seeming to hug him. And while it was nothing like the real cloak, Harry had to admit that it was very well done. Someone who didn't know any better could well be tricked into believing that this was the third Deathly Hallow, handed down the generations from Ignotus Peverell.

"This is exactly what Hermione Granger remembers you having," the old wizard said. "And it might well fool lesser men. But if they ask you, you must not say that you ever showed it to me, for those who know me well must realize that I would recognize it for a fake instantly."

"That should not be hard," Harry said, not bothering to keep the sharpness out of his voice. "Since when I got my cloak, there was a note on it saying not to show it to the Headmaster, as he might try to take it from me. Does that sound familiar to you?"

The Headmaster just looked at his hands.

"I do apologize for the deception, Mr. Potter," he said at last. "I know that it was wrong to manipulate you. I have no justification to offer, other than what you have undoubtedly already derived yourself. You did not know me then, but I think you understand me well enough now."

And Harry did. He was _annoyed_ by the stupid plot, but in the end, his _current_ view of Dumbledore was based on entirely different observations. And in that, tricking a child who is doomed to be the hero eventually into trusting you didn't seem all that incongruent. Of course, he would still have to carefully reevaluate his perception of the man, taking all information into account when he got a quiet moment, but he didn't expect that this new data would change much. In fact, all things considered, he should probably have done that before – some of his views might have been based on the manipulations of Quirrell, who had every motivation to bias him against the leader of the anti-Voldemort-movement.

"Were you also the one who sent Hermione those notes?" he asked, keeping his voice carefully controlled.

"No. I _thought_ it was the Defense Professor, but –" he helplessly raised his hands. "I really don't know anymore. But time is getting short." He glanced at the hourglass again. "Would you give me your cloak, to keep for you? They might well search all your possessions for it, and I can hide it more effectively. I swear that I will return it to you the instant you ask."

"I suppose." Harry took the cloak from his pouch and handed it to Dumbledore with a pang of sadness. But the Headmaster could have taken it from him any time, he did not need deception if he were dishonest. Harry fed the new, inferior cloak back into the pouch.

"Let us go," the ancient wizard spoke.

The two of them caught on fire and reappeared in the familiar office of the Deputy Headmistress. Professor McGonagall spun, surprised.

"You're back? Now? How –"

"I shall explain this to you shortly, Minerva. For now, could you please lock young Mr. Potter's Time-Turner again, as though it were never opened?"

She looked confused, but didn't protest as Harry dropped the shell into her hands. She placed the enchantments, and returned it.

"Thank you," he muttered to the both of them, and was out the office.

* * *

Friday April 16th, 1992, 4:18pm.

Harry strode through the corridors towards a place where he could be seen.

_How would an innocent Harry act?_

An innocent Harry who had just got that message, and had been left in Hogwarts by Dumbledore, would be confused, certainly. And tense, because Hermione might be dying unless Dumbledore could intercede. But he would not want to _tell_ people about this, because if Dumbledore could stop Hermione, then it might never be found out that she had somehow got a wand...

Acting tense and nervous and non-informative, then. But where? He couldn't go to his parents if he wanted to keep them out of it, the library might be empty, and if he hung around in the Ravenclaw common room, then Padma might get involved, and he really needed to keep her out of it too. If she was asked to testify, she might be given Veritaserum, which would be a disaster with all the things he had entrusted to her.

_Hermione knows the most dangerous of those secrets too,_ the voice of Ravenclaw whispered. _And she is certain to be given Veritaserum._ But apparently Dumbledore had still been able to send a Patronus, so if she had spilled the secret, it must have been controlled...

He walked into the Great Hall, where a few children from mixed houses were sitting together at the Gryffindor table, playing a large game of Gobstones. Harry sat by them and watched the game. He was not going to have much trouble looking tense and nervous.

Someone asked him whether he was okay. He waved them off.

Someone asked him whether he wanted to join the game. He said he preferred watching.

Some time later they asked again. This time he actually did participate for two rounds, and got squirted with a foul liquid. He politely passed up further opportunities to play.

There were more people giving him strange looks. He was acting unlike he usually would, but there was little he could do about that. It wouldn't even make sense to take a book from his pouch and try to read, because he wouldn't normally do that in so loud an environment.

And then the blazing phoenix burst into existence, amid gasps from his fellow students.

"Harry," it said. "As you feared, Miss Granger has attacked Azkaban, and destroyed all its Dementors. She has survived, given testimony, and will likely be executed before the weekend is over. There will be no trial, as she is no part of a Noble House. Tell me, Mr. Potter. Were you involved in this?"

The silence in the Great Hall was complete as everyone stared at him, and cold clarity fell over Harry. Of _course_ the government of magical Britain would not allow exceptions to its crazy rules just because the "crime" of breaking out in this case was a phoenix-driven attempt by a brave girl to destroy the darkest creatures in existence at the expected price of her life. That would be _sane_.

And of course he wasn't going to stand for that. As Dumbledore knew exactly how involved he was, he wouldn't be asking the question if there wasn't someone else listening. If Harry were involved, it would go before the Wizengamot. And while he had little good to expect from that particular body, he should be able to manipulate his and Hermione's way out from that.

_You do realize,_ his Slytherin side said, _that you are staking your own life on that hope. You have declared enmity on Lucius Malfoy only last week, and you'll be putting yourself straight into his power, without so much as a wand to defend yourself._

_We will not let her be killed,_ Hufflepuff and Gryffindor spoke together. _Not while there is a chance to save her._

_Are we escalating again, because we do not want to lose?_ Slytherin asked. _As Professor Quirrell said, losing, or at least _pretending_ to lose, is for everything, even people._

_In this case, winning is the more obvious choice__,_ Ravenclaw said calmly.

Harry glanced around at his schoolmates, who were all staring. Most of them had reviled Hermione after they heard of the trial, collective memories changing afterwards about how the kindest girl in Ravenclaw had really been a violent madwoman all along. Seconds had passed by. Harry had to speak up now, and in a way that would get them thinking about their own biases, and might help Hermione later.

"Did I break into Azkaban," he answered, his voice liquid crystal, "when the Wizengamot sent an innocent there to be eaten by Dementors, and give her the means to protect herself? Yes, I did.

"Did I teach her a spell to control Dementors, which can only be used by those who truly care about others? Yes, I did.

"Did I intend for her to use that spell to _destroy_ Dementors, to bring an end to the ceaseless suffering the government of magical Britain inflicts on its prisoners, a use that was almost certain to kill her? No, I must confess that I did not. But then, she was always a better person than I was."

The phoenix Patronus moved sideways and dissolved into the air.

The other children continued to stare wordlessly at Harry.

"Let this be a lesson to you," he spoke, addressing them in ice-cold tones. "There is no need to believe stupid things just because everyone else is saying them."

And with that, he turned on his heel and left the Great Hall.

* * *

Friday April 16th, 1992, 4:55pm.

Amelia Bones stared at the Patronus speechlessly, after it had delivered its message.

Albus Dumbledore just sighed wearily. "Much as I expected."

"He does not sound like a child at all," she found herself saying.

"He is the hero." Albus shrugged helplessly. "Amelia, since I don't think I am needed here, do you mind lending me a broomstick, and clearing with your Aurors that I may depart? In an hour, the International Confederation will vote on the question whether countries should be permitted to take Muggleborns from their parents at birth. It will raise questions about Timer-Turners if I give further testimony here when most of the Wizengamot will know that I am there at the time."

"Of course," she replied. "Just give me a moment."

She opened the door into the Aurors' Headquarters, where the six non-sleeping guards of Azkaban were looking over the screens. The tension in the air was almost tangible as she walked in.

"Bahry!" she barked. "Arrange a broomstick, and accompany Mr. Dumbledore here to the edge. I have already checked him, and will clear it with the others." It would be foolish to tell the Aurors to let the old wizard get away, as someone might be able to impersonate him, but the Azkaban Auror was sworn into the wards, so his company would _not_ be easy to fake.

If Bahry was surprised, he didn't show it. He just jumped up and led the way towards the storage cabinet.

"Madam Bones..." Auror Xiaoguang, whom everyone called Mike, was giving her a pleading look. "Would you tell us what you found?"

She just shoved the transcript to him. "Read it for yourself."

He did so, hiding only a very slight hesitation.

His eyes widened.

"She had an artifact to protect her from the Dementors?" His tone was a mixture of wonder and relief. He'd never been good at spying and undercover missions, she recalled. Perhaps she should arrange some extra lessons on controlling body language for him, although considering the fate he had obviously barely escaped, she might excuse this lapse in his outward appearance. Looking around, she saw other shoulders sagging, and the tension in the room noticeably weakened.

Auror Xiaoguang continued to read, a frown on his face. Finally, he passed the transcript back to her.

"Will she receive the Dementor's Kiss?" he asked, a note of pain in his voice. "The poor child only did what she thought was right."

"She might not," Amelia answered. "As Granger suspected, the scion of Potter has accommodated this outbreak. He has confessed as much. The Wizengamot will decide on this case, now. Speaking of which..." She turned to her Patronus. "Auror Astour. Please send a delegation of Aurors to Hogwarts, to apprehend Harry Potter on charges of conspiracy to mass-jailbreak and destruction of national weapons."

* * *

Friday April 16th, 1992, 5:05pm.

Up the spiraling stairs, into the Headmaster's Office. The gargoyles had been perfectly responsive to his whispered password, despite the invisibility. Harry knocked, and entered. Professor Dumbledore was sitting behind his desk.

"And so it was done," the old wizard sighed. "Forgive me for not telling you earlier, Mr. Potter. I merely wished for the choice to be yours, not mine. As you had answered exactly as I expected you to do, if I had spoken too early, then I might have inadvertently forced your hand."

Harry nodded. "That makes sense. But then why did you have me be seen? If you knew I was going to confess anyway, why get me an alibi for today's presence?"

"Neither you, nor Miss Granger, can I protect," the old wizard spoke wearily. "That responsibility, I fear, shall be fully yours. But there are three less valuable things in the balance, and those I have been seeking to safe-guard."

"Which three?"

"Myself. Minerva. And your cloak."

"Ah."

"It should be easy to protect Minerva, I think. Her role was minor, and few would suspect her. I know you do not lie easily, Harry, but would you deny it if anyone directly asked you for her involvement?"

"If necessary," Harry conceded. It would be dangerous to lie to the courts, as he might get caught out in that later. Would he be able to just not say anything? "I certainly do not want to drag her into this mess. Or you either."

The old wizard nodded slowly. "It shall be harder to steer suspicion away from me. It is obvious to everyone who would care to investigate that you must have had help breaking into Azkaban, and I am a natural suspect, save for that most who know me would consider me too wise for such a foolhardy undertaking. Today, I have gone to Azkaban uninvited, at your prompting, as Miss Granger sent her Patronus only to you, and there are more than a hundred witnesses who saw that I was told of what she was about to do before it was known to the DMLE. What is more, I was in Azkaban when the cloak which Miss Granger remembered leaving in her cell mysteriously disappeared. If there is any reason to believe you were there, then they will conclude that I brought you, and my part in the disaster will be all to obvious." He fixed Harry with a piercing look. "If you can save yourself by sacrificing me, Harry, you must do so. I am not the king on the chessboard. But if it would not save you, or if there is any other way out, I ask you to be careful. Although we do not always see eye to eye, I hope you acknowledge that I may be crucial to hold off Voldemort, whether you live or not."

Harry tore his gaze away. He felt very guilty all of a sudden. He didn't deserve such a sacrifice, and he wasn't even sure if the old wizard was right in his analysis of Harry's necessity. Certainly Harry couldn't see how Dumbledore would have any chance against Professor Quirrell Turned Evil, but given the latter's mysterious plot, it might well be that Harry could only make it _worse_...

"Why did you ask me to confess?" he asked, his voice breaking. "You would not sacrifice yourself for Hermione Granger, why allow _me_ to do so?"

"Because the choice ought to be yours," the old wizard said quietly. "And perhaps I would, now. She was always valuable. Now, serving as your conscience, with a phoenix upon her shoulder and the power to destroy Dementors, Hermione Granger is certainly worth more than a hundred thousand Galleons."

"About that... Did Professor McGonagall mention that Hermione's parents might pay –"

"The point is moot. Her crime is now far greater than mere attempted murder, and is not owed to Lucius Malfoy, but to the country. And your own noble name might be revoked for charges of treason, which the destruction of national weapons is filed under."

Harry nodded, thinking. "It was probably a mistake to take the cloak from her cell. It is easy to explain why I involved _you_ today – that was in actual fact Professor McGonagall's idea – but I don't really have an explanation for that one."

"The original Cloak of Invisibility is an ancient and mysterious artifact, Harry," the Headmaster said gravely. "It is truly a device of legends. There are no people in living memory who are known to have studied its properties; none but me, and _that_ is a close-guarded secret. I believe neither James nor his father from whom he inherited it have ever given it to another for study. Which means that the tale that Ignotus's Cloak will always find its way back to its owner may be promoted as the obvious explanation, if you do not say anything that will contradict it. This is a long-existing story, which those who seek the Deathly Hallows know well. I have mentioned it today, in the hope that it will be interpreted as a powerful retrieval charm that predates the wards of Azkaban."

"Ah," Harry said. "But if the cloak is ever found, then it's easy to test that it does _not_ do that..."

"Indeed. It _must not_ be found in your possession, for this reason and others. The Stone and the Cloak were never as coveted as the Wand, but there are still dozens of those who search for the Deathly Hallows who would happily slit your throat to obtain it. The Cloak is _extremely_ valuable, priceless even. That is why I took the risk of having you take it away. If the Ministry found it, they would not lightly return it to you, especially now that it has been revealed that the Cloak allows you to resist Dementors – which will undoubtedly rekindle the faith in some of the more arcane tales of its powers. Even as it is, with people _suspecting_ that you may possess it, you might not have peace for the rest of your life, as others would seek to take it from you."

"Why? I mean, I agree it's pretty useful, but if they didn't know that it would resist Dementors, why would people want it so much?"

"Even just to complete the set – supposedly, to unite the three Hallows is to Master Death, although I believe that that part of the tales is just a myth, for the Three Brothers _did_ unite the Hallows, and yet they died. There are many other properties ascribed to it as well. Most of them are false, as I verified, but from what your father told me about his father's experiences, I am quite certain – although I could not test it myself, and would not show the Cloak to anyone else – that it blocks the Killing Curse."

"That is not as important to me as to most people, seeing as I have other ways to avoid it."

"True," the old wizard conceded. "But you are its master, as I never was, and you might come to understand it better. The connection to Dementors would never have occurred to me."

_Only because you do not think of Dementors as being connected to death._ "So do you have a suggestion for how I'm going to pretend _not_ to be its owner?"

The old man shrugged helplessly. "You have almost five hours to come up with a good story, and then act the part. I will help you with any questions you may have.."

Somewhere in Harry's head, Slytherin snickered. _It appears that the Headmaster has finally learned not to consider us as a child._

_You merely need to save yourself and Hermione Granger from getting the Dementor's Kiss, without straying from anything she said, suggesting that you own the device which obviously helped her, incriminating anyone else, or being caught in a lie that would cause future problems,_ Hufflepuff added. _No pressure._

_This seems nowhere near as hard as breaking Bellatrix Black out of Azkaban,_ Ravenclaw said. _Stop complaining._

"Mr. Lupin knew of my father's cloak," Harry pointed out. "Do you know whether he is an Occlumens? If they call on him, he would certainly recognize that the one you gave me isn't it. Plus," he added with a frown, "he knows I wasn't in Hogwarts the entire day."

"Mr. Lupin is a werewolf, Harry," the Headmaster said gravely. "And while that is no stain on his character, most of our kind do not think of them as people. It will not occur to anyone that he was a friend of James. And since your father's other friends are either dead or in Azkaban..." He trailed off. "I shall ask Remus to not be seen for a few days regardless. But as he has no fixed residence, and it is very unlikely anyone will make the connection, I do not think you need to fear anything from that side."

"All right," Harry said. "But it might still be a little too much of a coincidence that I have acquired an imitation of the True Cloak, and just_ happen_ to be involved in a crime with the real thing."

"No," the ancient wizard shook his head. "Many artifacts are made in imitation of historical examples. Your cloak follows a description I read when I was a teenager. As good invisibility cloaks go, it is not at all unusual. I would not so readily have agreed to make Miss Granger remember a cloak that appeared special to her otherwise."

_This is almost going to be easy,_ Gryffindor remarked optimistically.

_Don't say stupid stuff,_ Slytherin suggested.

"Thank you," Harry said quietly. "I guess I'd better go now, and think about things. Will the password be valid for the rest of the day if I have further questions?"

"It will. Oh, but Harry –"

Harry had already stood up, and turned around. The old wizard looked pained.

"I hate to even contemplate this, but I must... If you do not survive the proceedings, who do you wish to name as your heir?"

Harry swallowed. But Dumbledore was right: he _did_ need to think about it.

"Hermione, if she lives. Padma if not."

And with that, he donned the new invisibility cloak and left.

* * *

Hermione Granger sat silently on the stone bench in the near-darkness of her cell. There was no Patronus light to keep her company anymore.

But there were also no Dementors.

She had no idea what would happen next. Would they just leave her in this cell? Kill her? Get new Dementors? She knew she should be afraid, but instead, she just felt calm. Peaceful. She had made her decision and gone through with it, and that was all she could do. She had survived, which she had not expected, and which might not turn out to be a blessing. But whatever would happen, would happen, and she would meet it when it did.

And that left the question of today's mystery...

"Are you here to stay?" she asked in the darkness. The warm weight in her lap shifted comfortably. "Caw."

"Forever?"

"Caw!"

"Staying with me won't be a very exciting life for a phoenix, you know. I'll probably be in a cell like this for the rest of my life." She considered for a moment. "However long that may be."

"Caw."

"What's your name?"

"Caw?"

"Oh, I should make one up? Are you a boy phoenix or a girl phoenix?"

"Caw?"

_Of course,_ she thought. _Phoenix are undying. Perhaps they are also unborn. And if they have no beginning or end, there would be no reason to reproduce, so why would the species have gender?_

"I think I'll think of you as girl," she decided. The English language just didn't have convenient gender-neutral pronouns. "And I'll call you... Xare."

* * *

The story of Harry Potter's statement had run over the school with the rapidity of fiendfyre, so it was no surprise to Minerva when Flitwick's Patronus informed her that three Aurors had entered the grounds.

When she came into the Entrance Hall, three crimson-robed figures came in through the door. Students were peeking in from the Great Hall, and from other corridors.

And there, suddenly, was Harry Potter, pulling an Invisibility Cloak off himself as though he had been waiting for them there. The foremost Auror did not hesitate, but approached him immediately.

"Harry Potter," she said. "You are under arrest on charges of aiding and abetting: jailbreak, destruction of national weapons, and treason. You will be taken into custody to be interrogated under three drops of Veritaserum."

The boy stood quietly, as he was patted down and his wand, pouch and cloak taken from him. And then the four of them left, the Aurors' wands all directed at Harry, as though he were a dangerous criminal about to pull some amazing wandless magic, rather than an eleven-year old child.

Minerva gritted her teeth. She had known that it was coming, but it still hurt.

The situation was highly serious, she knew. Prisonbreak. Treason. Even if both children had obviously only done the right thing, the simple fact was that they _had_ broken the law, and that these laws came with very high punishments. Even just breaking into Azkaban, which Harry had confessed doing, would normally land him a four-month sentence. And Hermione's act had freed the minds of hundreds of severe criminals, many of them Death Eaters, in a prison that could not easily be defended without its Dementors. As heroic and inspiring as it had been, the simple fact that half of Voldemort's closest servants might have been enabled to escape would weigh heavily on the Wizengamot's minds. Add to that Hermione's vilification as an attempted-murderess...

Perhaps _that_ part of the problem was fixable, at least. Harry had told her that Draco wouldn't talk to _him_, but...

She summoned her Patronus. "Go to Severus Snape," she asked. "And tell him: please ask Draco to come see me after dinner."

* * *

It was immediately clear that something unusual had happened, when Lesath Lestrange sneaked into the Great Hall in the quiet, unobtrusive way he had learned to use years ago. People were running from table to table. Despite the low number of students – most were still home for the holidays – there was an excited babble all around. A few children had tear-streaked faces, but they looked more happy than upset. Only the teachers at the Head Table had serious looks, wearing frowns as they bent over to talk to each other.

Lesath scanned the Slytherin table, and found the person he was looking for. He sat down next to Silvia Dorskey, a sixth-year prefect who hadn't exactly been _friendly_ but at least was always civil to him.

"What is going on?" He whispered to her.

She looked surprised. "I would have expected you to know by now."

"Why? _What happened?_" he pressed.

"Potter was arrested an hour ago. We all saw it! They accused him of conspiracy for jailbreak and treason and something else, I forget. And people were already saying that he had broken into Azkaban, given Granger a wand, and that she used that to kill all Dementors there. And then of course some people panicked, but the children with Auror-relatives are saying that nobody escaped, just that all Dementors are gone." She looked thoughtful. "That's all I know from _reliable_ sources, anyway. Would you like to hear some of the wilder rumors? Hey, you've gone all white."

"Yes, I... I..." he stammered. "Thank you!" He scrabbled back from the bench and fled to the bathrooms right off the Great Hall, feeling his wand shaking in his hand almost beyond his control.

_The darkness can be broken._

That's what Potter had said, and Lesath had _thought_ that he believed it, but he hadn't really. But now he saw that his Lord was right.

_The darkness can be broken._

The Granger girl, one of his master's other servants – or maybe friends – had done what he himself had failed to do. She had freed father from the Dementors' grip, and even if that wasn't _quite_ like real freedom, it was enough. Potter had been arrested for it. Was this what his master had had in mind, when he had given Lesath the task of passing on the True Patronus Charm?

He looked down at the wand in his hand. It shook, as he trembled a little, but the tip was gleaming, ever so faintly, with a silver light.

Dementors could be destroyed. Mother and father both lived, and didn't have to suffer anymore. Master Potter had painted a vision of a beautiful world, and he was on track to make it come true. The first step had been made. It might or might not be up to Lesath to do the rest. But if Dementors could be destroyed, anything was possible.

_The darkness really can be broken!_

"_Expecto Patronum!_"

The light burst out of him, turning the bathroom to silver and then white as it grew, impossibly bright, brighter even than Potter's Patronus had been. He could imagine feeling the Dementors, those pits of horror and misery, at the edges of his spell and then fading away as the Patronus tore them apart.

_Stop!_ He told himself. _Stop, or people will see it! You must not betray Lord Potter by showing that you can do this!_

The light softened then, and further, until he could make out the shape of a human, looking a lot like a young boy. And then, with a movement of his wand, the Patronus disappeared. But he would recast it later, where no one could see him. And if his Lord were not to return, then he would teach others, as he was commanded, and after that he would make sure that no Dementor would remain on the face of the earth.

He stumbled over to one of the sinks, far weaker than he had felt before. That spell had taken a lot out of him, but it was worth it. He washed his face, which was streaked with tears, and quietly pocketed his wand, as though nothing had happened.

They came for him, then, the Gryffindors and also some from the other Houses. But he didn't care. His father had endured Azkaban for over ten years; he could handle ten minutes of pain. Besides, no matter what they did to him, it couldn't take away the bright Patronus fire that he now held close to his heart.

* * *

"You wanted to see me, Professor?" Draco kept his face carefully neutral. He had heard, of course, about the arrest, and he had a pretty good feeling what this would be about, but not what she wanted of him.

"Yes, I did. Would you please sit?"

He did so. The woman did look rather stressed, he thought. And there was a Pensieve on her desk. Curious.

"Mr. Malfoy, I shall come straight to the point. You have testified under Veritaserum that you tried to help Hermione Granger before. Would you be willing to do so again?"

Draco blinked. "You would have me help the witch who tried to kill me?"

"No!" she exclaimed. "No, of course not. But I know from my classes that you are intelligent, and from what others tell me, you are just. If Hermione Granger was _not_ the person who tried to kill you, would you be willing to help her then?"

Draco felt his heart beating loudly. "Who else is responsible, do you think?"

A strange look crossed her face, but it disappeared before he could properly interpret it. "What I think on that subject is not important now. There is no proof either way. But what we can prove," and here she turned a hopeful gaze on him, "what I _hope_ we can prove, is that it was not Hermione. I don't think the Aurors really considered all possibilities when investigating the case – they simply assumed guilt. So that is what I was hoping to convince you to do: consider the _possibility_ that it was not her, and if we can prove it together, then speak up. Only if we can – you would not have to defend her without being convinced that she was never your enemy."

Draco considered this. "I certainly would prefer that the person who actually did it is punished rather than an innocent pawn." His voice gave nothing away as he added: "Did Dumbledore ask you to do this?"

"No." She shook her head. "_Professor_ Dumbledore is currently at the International Confederation of Wizards. This is entirely my own doing."

She was probably telling the truth, he thought. And if this could help them find any evidence that it had really been Dumbledore...

"What would you have me do?"

She gestured to the Pensieve. "To start, would you be willing to share your complete memories of the duel?"


	17. Chapter 97: Nihil Supernum, Pt 4

**CHAPTER 97: NIHIL SUPERNUM, PT 4**

* * *

It was almost noon when Hermione was led out of the cell in the DMLE where she had been kept the last night. The Aurors had told her what was going to happen, and what _he_ had done, so Hermione was not surprised to see Harry, being led out of a different cell. Three Aurors closed in behind them, and two Patronuses, to guard the last Dementor in Britain. She would have been surprised that they would dare put the creature so close to the two people in the country who could destroy it, but Auror Li had – carefully and somewhat guiltily – explained what they might need it for, too.

And now they walked the hallways together, the Boy-Who-Lived and the Girl-Who-Escaped, drawing strength from each other's company. She didn't want him here, but she was glad not to be alone all the same.

"I'm so sorry, Harry," she said, rushing out the words in case the Aurors would tell her to be quiet. "I never meant to get you into trouble."

"Don't apologize for doing the right thing," he answered calmly. The Aurors made no objection – apparently they were allowed to talk (although, she suspected, anything they said would probably be used against them). "I wish I could say that I would have done the same thing in your place. But I've had that chance, and I threw it away." He glanced at the phoenix that was flying along with her. Powerful spells had been put on the bird to render it harmless, but with that done, she had been allowed to keep Xare close.

"Besides," he added lightly. "Now at least you won't have to worry about being seen as my lab assistant anymore."

She couldn't help it, she had to grin. Trust Harry to try and pretend nothing out of the ordinary was going on.

"At the moment, Mr. Potter," she returned, falling into the same casual tone, "I think we both have slightly larger things to worry about."

He smiled slightly. "Just be yourself. I estimate a greater than fifty percent probability that we'll both go free."

It seemed so _normal_ for how they usually spoke, that she could almost forget about the last two weeks and the Aurors and the Dementor behind them and the stone hallways, and imagine the two of them to be back at Hogwarts, walking to the library for a studying session. Almost.

"Nevertheless," she replied, "if you had _asked_ me, I would have told you not to sacrifice yourself for me."

"That would be almost selfish, you know," he said matter-of-factly. "There are only about fourteen people in the entire world with a phoenix, and they tend to do a lot of good. Face it, you're worth more than you value yourself."

They had descended the last stairs. Only one corridor separated them from the Wizengamot courtroom.

"Be silent now," one of the Aurors ordered. "And wait until we are called in."

* * *

It was Sunday, April 19th, of 1992, and Professor Michael Verres-Evans sat uncomfortably next to his wife on the stone benches, overlooking the courtroom where his eleven-year-old son would stand trial for his life.

It was the famous war hero, politician and headmaster himself who had informed the couple. Harry had described the headmaster of his school as a sort of benevolent madman, who set chickens on fire to mess with students' minds. Yet, there didn't seem to be any insanity in the eyes of this ancient man, with his long billowing white hairs and his dark purple robes. The Deputy Headmistress they had spoken to so far was a sensible, formal woman, who just so happened to be a witch. But this ancient wizard – looking much like Merlin was always depicted but more _real_ – visibly radiated power, even to untrained Muggle eyes.

He had told them, in what was undoubtedly a highly simplified version of events, what was happening to their son.

There had been arguments.

The wizard had been reluctant, to say the least, to allow the Muggle parents of the "Boy-Who-Lived" to witness his trial. He had tried with every measure, except force or magic, to dissuade them. But Michael Verres-Evans could be stubborn too.

"There is nothing of good you can do there, and plenty of evil," he had spoken. "If you speak up or otherwise draw attention to yourself, you may cause great difficulty for your son."

"And yet we must be there, if only to support Harry in silence," Michael had responded.

"The boy must defend himself, young though he is, for there are no lawyers in our world. He might do worse for your presence, if there are things he would keep from you."

"Our son has always been quite happy to ignore us when it didn't suit him to pay us attention."

"You will be frustrated with the proceedings," the old wizard had said. "For notions of childhood, fairness and justice are far removed from these courts. You will be tempted to interfere, and that would lead to disaster. Most of the Wizengamot look kindly upon the Boy-Who-Lived, as in their eyes he is the hero who ended the last war. However, many of them do _not_ feel generous towards Muggles, and would not appreciate the idea of Muggle morals being imposed on their politics."

"I assure you, we understand that. We will remain silent."

The ancient man had given him a piercing look.

"Your son said the same, before the last trial. And yet he failed to abide by his promise."

"And was this not what almost saved the girl from prison?"

"Partly. Unfortunately, he said more than one thing, and some of the statements he made have done significant damage to his reputation, a harm which will undoubtedly make tomorrow's trial vastly more difficult."

"The point is moot. We are both adults, unlike Harry, and we understand that we don't know enough of the court proceedings in the madness of this magical world to have any hope of success."

The argument had gone on some more, until the wizard had finally pressed: "If this turns out for the worst – I hope it will not, but it _might_ – then both children may be executed there and then. Would you have that happen in front of your eyes?"

Petunia had recoiled in horror. But Michael stood firm.

"If it happens anyway, then it will be no worse for my witnessing it."

The wizard had sighed at that. "You are much like your son."

"I shall take that as a compliment."

"Very well then. If you insist, I will bring you," the powerful wizard had wearily spoken. "I shall give you robes to wear, so as not to draw attention to your birth. And if there is anything you absolutely wish to be said, inform Professor McGonagall, who will sit by you. She has ways of contacting me silently."

"She will guard us, you mean," Michael had snapped. "But fine. As long as we are there."

* * *

The visitor benches were packed, all with adults. The Deputy Headmistress had explained that their son was a symbol of hope to many people. She had also said that the destruction of more than a hundred Dementors, the darkest creatures known to man, would have sparked wonder in the hearts of young and old alike. Whether the politicians who would be doing the judging felt the same, as they filed in in their purple robes, remained to be seen.

The courtroom was an immense place built of dark rock; smooth, elegant and grand. Not a bad place for a conference, although perhaps a little intimidating. Michael might have been intrigued by the fact that this place had existed, hidden beneath London for some fifteen hundred years, but he was a bit too nervous to really appreciate the history and implications of this building, where no Muggle had set foot for over thirty years.

There was a small, sharp rap, and suddenly the room fell silent. All eyes turned to the great wizard, the Headmaster and Chief Warlock, who stood behind a podium on the topmost level.

"The twenty-first session of the two-hundred-and-eighth Wizengamot is convened at the request of Harry James Potter," the ancient man spoke. Apparently Harry's change of surname had not been formally acknowledged in the Wizarding world. That, or the wizard simply didn't want to draw attention to his Muggle connections. "Who is currently in custody for jailbreak and treason, along with Hermione Jean Granger, and has asked for the case to be judged by this body. Madam Bones, as Director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, I ask you to present the case."

A gray-haired, stern-looking witch sitting close to Albus Dumbledore, stood up.

"On Friday, 17 April, at quarter past four," she spoke, her crisp voice somehow loud enough to be clearly heard everywhere in the hall, "the Aurors guarding Azkaban were surprised by a bright light. When it passed, all Dementors had disappeared. The apparent culprit was inmate Hermione Jean Granger, sentenced there for attempted murder, who had acquired a wand and, with the help of a phoenix, broken out and used a hitherto unknown spell to destroy Dementors."

There was excited muttering in the benches, but it was silenced with a rap from the Chief Warlock's rod.

"Questioned by Albus Dumbledore, who had been alerted to the escape, Harry James Potter has freely confessed that he has previously broken into Azkaban and given Miss Granger the means to escape, as well as teaching her the spell to destroy Dementors."

She looked at the Chief Warlock, who nodded, and spoke in a great, booming voice: "Let Hermione the first Granger, and Harry, scion and heir of the Noble House of Potter, be brought forth."

The doors opened then, and the two children walked in, followed by three men in crimson robes, two shining silver animals (a lynx and a rabbit), and ...

Michael stared at the tattered cloak floating a little above the ground. He couldn't see the creature itself, but he thought he could _feel_ it. It seemed to radiate some kind of darkness. Emptiness. Anger filled him at the thought of _that_ being anywhere _near_ his son.

The two children were led towards the metal chairs in the center of the room, and sat down. Beside him, Petunia let out a choked gasp as dark metal chains snaked out from the chairs and bound their arms and legs. One chain in each chair even twirled itself around the children's necks. Michael balled his fists. He might have shouted out, but the Deputy Headmistress on his other side shot him a warning look, and he remembered his promise. Whatever he did, he should not make it harder for Harry to get out of this. And Harry's face didn't look desperate. He didn't even have that angry, cold look which Michael had come to recognize and fear ever since the Incident with the Science Project. Instead, he just looked calm, like he was entirely in control of the situation. Michael couldn't see Harry's little friend Hermione very well, but her movements, too, did not bespeak the terror he imagined he would have felt in their place.

"If it pleases my Lords," the gray-haired, stern-looking witch continued, rolling open a piece of parchment. "I will now read the testimony of Miss Granger, delivered under one drop of Veritaserum. As her statements make clear, it would have been dangerous to give her more than one."

She spoke. Surprisingly, Michael even understood most of it. The Headmaster had explained the meaning of such words as "Dementor", "Patronus" and "phoenix", and told them of the peculiar spell Harry had invented. What he had not expected was the obvious shock and surprise from the assembly. The Headmaster had _said_ that the spell which the girl had used, and which Harry had invented, was new and had been considered impossible, but to him, it was all just magic. To the wizards and witches, a fundamental rule of their world view had been shattered.

_Figures,_ he thought. _Harry never did care much about rules. I thought breaking the rules of physics was bad, but apparently he just doesn't know where to stop._

Voices rose up when the woman lowered the scroll, but she held up a hand, and another two sharp raps enforced silence. "Before we begin the deliberations," she said, "I would like to read you Mr. Potter's statements. As he is a registered Occlumens, it is unlikely that the Veritaserum he was given had any effect. I would ask you all to take that into account." She rolled open another piece of parchment.

"It is obvious to me, and to anyone who thinks about it for more than half a minute, that Hermione Granger is innocent of the crime she was convicted for. Twelve-year-old girls generally do not commit cold-blooded murder, and Hermione Granger is one of the kindest students in our year. You have seen as much during her trial, and now she has a phoenix upon her shoulder. What do you think is more likely: that she would suddenly go crazy and try to kill a fellow student in a manner the Hogwarts administration has overlooked for eight hundred years? Or that she was used as a pawn in someone else's plot?

"So yes, I broke into Azkaban afterwards and went to her, the first moment it was safe. The plan was mine, and I supplied the books given to her, but as you surmise, I did have adult help. No, I will not give you any names – that would just cause another good person to be subjected to the whims of this mockery of a justice system. They did what they believed was right to help an innocent, and I said I would take responsibility. Let that be enough.

"My intention was to keep her shielded from harm until such time as I could prove her innocence, and secure her release. I did not intend for her to break out, and in fact told her not to. Of course, I should have realized that a girl like Hermione Granger could not live long amid other people suffering without trying to do something about it."

Michael was entirely speechless. This was not the kind of statement that he had expected.

The woman rolled up the parchment again. "Mr. Potter has also supplied a list of the books in Miss Granger's neck-bag. The list was accurate, which gives a strong indication that he was indeed involved, as he said. Otherwise, he has declined to make any statements."

Michael almost stood up and shouted at his idiot son to tell them everything, to not be so foolish as to let it come to an execution rather than revealing the adults who helped him. But he found that he couldn't move, and that his voice stuck in his throat.

"I apologize, Dr. Verres," the Deputy Headmistress whispered. "But you _must not_ interfere. If I release you, will you remain silent?"

He nodded, slowly, as it was the only movement he could make. His body unfroze, then.

The woman – Madam Bones – waited for the mutterings to die down, and then added: "We have confirmed that the pouch is a powerful device, which would be far beyond Mr. Potter's current magical strength to make. I should add that the cloak, which Miss Granger claims to have left in her cell, had disappeared when my Aurors searched for it. On his arrest, my Aurors did confiscate an invisibility cloak from Mr. Potter, which is powerful, but it does not resemble the device Miss Granger described, and does not shield people from the Dementors' drain. We have searched his possessions and did not find the other cloak, nor any other noteworthy magical items. Mr. Ollivander of Diagon Alley has identified the wand as belonging to the late John Beckett. And Professor McGonagall has confirmed that the method Miss Granger used to break through the wall employed a new form of Transfiguration, discovered by Mr. Potter, which she would prefer not to speak of further as then someone might attempt it without proper instruction."

She sat down, then.

"That is _all_?" a long-haired, white-blond man in the upper rows asked incredulously.

"The boy has refused to say anything about his accomplices, explain where the wand came from, make any statements about the current location of the cloak, and even to confirm his name," the woman answered. "Beyond his initial statement and the list of books, he has not answered any question."

"Why didn't you torture him?" the man asked.

Beside him, Petunia gripped the chair in front of her. Michael felt much the same. He didn't know what was worse: the words, or the calm demeanor of the man as he spoke them.

"Merlin's Mandate states that this must only be used as a last resort in cases of national security, Lord Malfoy," the woman replied, "And that we _must_ accept any answer given under torture, unless it is an obvious falsehood. Since, in this case, I did not think we could distinguish falsehood from truth – indeed, the children's abilities defy all belief – and as it is not clear whether national security is at stake until we decide what must be done with Akzaban, I concluded that it would be better not to do so. Besides, Mr. Potter is both underage, and noble."

"Who was John Beckett?" A woman's voice from somewhere in the half-circles asked. "Did the girl know him?"

"As he has been dead for almost fifty years," Madam Bones answered, "That seems unlikely. He died in Grindelwald's attack on the Ministry in 1943."

"But then how could she use the wand?" the same woman asked. "For what I know of wandlore, it must have been willingly given to her to be at all effective."

"Perhaps I can shed some light on this," Albus Dumbledore said. "I learned of the wand yesterday, and I believe I have found the answer. As some of you who lived in those years may remember, John had a sister, Elizabeth Beckett." There were nods among some of the gray- and white-haired of the politicians. "Both siblings fought in that battle, side by side; John died, and Elizabeth was heavily wounded. She then disappeared from the public eye.

"It was almost two years later when I first saw her again. She was one of those urging me most sincerely to stand up to Grindelwald – indeed, she offered me her life if I could use it to stop Grindelwald's anti-Muggle policies. In the few months we worked together, she spoke little of what had happened to her in those past two years, except for one name: Edward Cayden, a Muggle with whom she had had, as she called it, a 'fling'. Although, given the nature of her sudden protectiveness of Muggles, I estimated that the relation might have been rather deeper than she confessed to.

"In the end, she did give her life. I later heard that she had asked Armando Dippet, the Headmaster of Hogwarts at the time, to view the Hogwarts book of magical children born in Britain and Ireland. As my recent inquiries into Miss Granger's family revealed that her mother's maiden name was Roberta Cayden, I suspect that Miss Granger is Elizabeth Beckett's granddaughter, and John's grandniece. Perhaps a relative or friend of the family has preserved John's wand as a memory; as you might know, a wand does usually give its allegiance to a blood-relative who inherits it."

"But I thought the girl was Muggleborn!" another woman exclaimed. There were mutters of agreement in the stands.

"She is," Albus Dumbledore answered. "Neither of her parents has magic."

"But this sounds more like the magic simply skipped a generation."

"Does it matter?"

"No... No, of course not."

Michael wasn't sure – it was hard to gauge the expressions of the many strangers on those benches – but he got the distinct feeling that the whispers buzzing around the hall, and the way the judges looked at the two children, suddenly seemed a lot more approving.

"They despise us," Petunia whispered, next to him. She had sensed it too. "Muggles – and Muggleborns by extension. If just having a single magical grandparent makes everything better..."

"It's not just that," Professor McGonagall whispered. She must have sharp hearing, to have overheard Petunia, or be very used to catching whispering children in the furthest benches of a classroom. "Hermione Granger was always extraordinarily powerful, and has now done something amazing that will go into the history books far beyond Britain. Her very existence is a danger to the policies of blood purists, and even to the beliefs of those who _think_ they're tolerant. If they can argue themselves into believing that she's actually of wizard descent, she's far more harmless to them."

"How about her father?" a man was saying. "Could he be related to Hector Dagworth-Granger, who founded the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers?"

"I do not know," the Chief Warlock answered. "Although considering the uncommon name, I suppose there might be a connection."

"I remember Elizabeth Beckett," another man said. "A brilliant scholar as ever I've met, and extremely brave. She was Gryffindor Prefect and Head Girl, in my Hogwarts years."

There were approving nods around the ancient hall.

"For once I agree with the Chief Warlock," the long-haired man spoke in an ice-cold voice. "The girl's ancestry is not the point. She is still a murderess."

"She is not," came a voice from the center of the hall. All eyes turned towards the boy, chained onto his chair, who had nevertheless turned his head to look defiantly at the speaker.

"Ah," the man drawled. "You finally wish to speak, Mr. Potter?"

"Only to say what should be obvious, Lord Malfoy." Harry's voice was as cold as it had been in some of his worst moments. "_Obviously_ Hermione and your son were both Memory-Charmed. Obviously, you are so blinded by your thirst for revenge that you do not care whether it is enacted on the right person."

"And who would you say did this, then? Do you have an answer this time?" The voice could have cut through steel.

"Why yes, it was Professor Quirrell," Harry answered matter-of-factly. "As a teacher, he could have modified student memories without setting off the wards. Unfortunately I have little evidence, though, so I do not expect you to believe that."

Lord Malfoy snorted dismissively. "What motive would _he_ have?"

"What motive would _she_ have?" Harry asked, nodding at Hermione. "The trap was for me. You see, I have made it abundantly clear that I am prepared to go quite far to keep Hermione Granger from harm. He intended to press me into co-operating in an illegal endeavor, which would have me saving your life and thereby creating a substantial debt. I do not know his _exact_ motives, but if I had agreed, then it would certainly have given him significant power of blackmail over me."

There was silence, for several moments. And then there was laughter. It was nervous laughter, but it spread all the same, along with quite a few dismissive snorts.

"It seems," Lord Malfoy sneered, "that Mr. Potter has watched a few too many plays."

"Lord Malfoy, if I may?" A woman in the middle of the stands had stood up.

"Lady Greengrass?"

"The boy might have a bit too much imagination," the Lady Greengrass said, "but as my daughter – who is in the year as your son – has pointed out to me, there _are_ some possibilities we have overlooked. She listed five different groups of suspects who all have a greater motive than the girl, and who would have had the opportunity."

"_Five?_" the powerful Lord responded incredulously. "And who would _that_ be?"

"Those who seek to destabilize you, for instance. Or those who do not approve of your heir. The other possibilities, I fear, might offend if spoken aloud."

"What are you suggesting?" Danger dripped from the voice.

"Ahem," the ancient wizard at the topmost podium spoke. "Let us not get into needless arguments. In fact, I have been asked to call for another witness, should this line of questioning come up. Would you permit me?"

The Lady Greengrass nodded gracefully. The Lord Malfoy seemed less eager, but waved a hand in acceptance all the same.

"Professor Minerva McGonagall, you may speak."

The woman next to Michael stood up.

"I call upon Draco, scion and heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy."

"_What?_"

The doors were already opening, and in strolled a young boy, accompanied by a tiny man. A boy with sleek, white-blond hair, wearing the standard Hogwarts robes with a green trim. He turned towards the man with the silver cane, who was staring at the boy with wide eyes.

"I'm sorry, father. I don't want to go against you. But I want the person who actually attacked me to be punished. I want them to suffer for it _hard_. Not get away because some innocent was sentenced in their place."

The noble Lord opened and shut his mouth, then shook his head and just sat down. The boy turned to the crimson-robed men standing a bit back from the chairs.

"I will take some Veritaserum now, please. One drop will do."

The boy was silently given a drop of liquid by the surprised Auror, and then turned to face the assembly.

"After carefully examining my memories," he declared, in a commanding tone that befit a young prince (which, Michael supposed, he sort of was), "I have determined that they are most likely false. I no longer believe that Hermione Granger has attacked me."

* * *

The fragments of Amelia Bones' shattered world view tried picking themselves up desperately as she stared at the young Malfoy heir, speaking up to the Wizengamot and going against his own father. There were gasps of shock around her. Draco Malfoy declaring under Veritaserum that he had been trying to help a Muggleborn witch was one thing. Deliberately coming to the same girl's aid again, after what had happened... it defied belief.

The scion of Malfoy waited until the murmurs had died down before continuing: "As Professor McGonagall has rightly pointed out to me, a weakness of Memory-Charms is that it is very hard – or indeed even impossible – to create _thoughts_ that would seem natural to the target. At least without Legilimency, for which I might have been tested. Yet I know exactly what I was thinking when challenging Miss Granger to a duel. That, I am quite certain, really happened. I do _not_ recall thinking anything during the duel itself. Indeed, I do not see why I would walk away from the duel without instantly telling her of the duel we would fight the next day – at least I ought to have thought about it. I wounded her, yet for what I hear she showed no sign of it the next day. All this leads me to suspect that the duel we both remember never took place. Hermione Granger and I have a mutual enemy, who struck before we ever fought."

"An enemy who strikes at two school children?" Lord Nott exclaimed. "To what purpose?"

"My father has many political enemies, Lord Nott. Some of these might have been willing to take a convenient opportunity to distract him, right before the most important meeting of the International Confederation of Wizards in ten years."

At this he glanced, ever so briefly, at the Chief Warlock. It was subtle, but others might have seen it too. He might never have dared make the accusation openly, but...

Was it possible that Albus Dumbledore had been behind this? No, surely not. He might have profited from the death of his greatest enemy's son, but this was not Albus's way of doing things, and he obviously _did_ care for the girl. The explanation of Lord Voldemort returning and striking at his prophesized enemy was a better one, little though she wanted to believe it, and little though she was prepared to stop thinking of David Monroe as a hero. But Draco Malfoy could not know that, and most in the assembly gave little credence to the stories of the rogue Defense Professor.

His testimony having been given, Draco Malfoy bowed politely, and left the room again with Professor Flitwick. Debate flared up.

And yes, more people now seemed willing to consider the possibility that Hermione Granger never committed the crime she was sentenced for. Even Lucius Malfoy no longer attacked her. Dumbledore was speaking of the many letters, sent to great houses across the political spectrum, asking to do something about Granger after the documented fight in the Hogwarts hallways. But to those who now believed him to be behind the attack, it would just seem like he was looking for a scapegoat. No one spoke any direct accusations, but it was clear what many of the politicians were thinking.

Did McGonagall realize what she'd done? In bringing the Malfoy boy here, she had helped the scion of Malfoy gain political capital and undermine Albus Dumbledore. The action had restored Granger's reputation, and in doing so might well have saved both children's lives, but at what price? With Voldemort returned, every potential ally lost to Dumbledore was another blow to the country's chance of survival. How would this affect the coming war?

She stood up, signaling that she intended to speak, and waited for some moments to be given the opportunity.

"I would like to remind my Lords that the question under consideration is not the girl's innocence. Although relevant to the proceedings, perhaps we should take a step back and return to the other, more weighty accusations, of jailbreak and treason?"

"Thank you Madam Bones," Marten McWillen spoke, a wealthy and conservative tradesman who usually sided with the Malfoy camp, "I do not see how there can be any doubt as to what should happen. The girl has confessed that she has willingly removed the Dementors from Azkaban, thereby risking an outbreak from some of the worst criminals our country has seen in centuries!"

"I daresay the possibility of their escape never crossed her mind, Mr. McWillen," the Lady Greengrass spoke up. "She only tried to stop other people from suffering. Can you blame her for that?"

"Since the suffering was supposed to be part of their punishment, I most certainly can! And just because she did not think about the possibility of their escape is hardly an excuse for accommodating it."

There were murmurs of agreement in the benches.

"But nobody did escape," Theodorus Deas said. He was one of those who had voted against Hermione Granger's imprisonment, she remembered. "International ambassadors and trade leaders have often indicated that they consider our treatment of prisoners to be inhumane. We suffered greatly in our international esteem for imprisoning a child; would you have us lose yet more for executing her, when she did only what for instance Madam Laquelle has often pressed us to do?"

"And will Madam Laquelle build us a prison with as great a deterrence effect as Azkaban?"

"The crime rates in France are not significantly higher than ours, Lord Usto."

"The recidivism rate is!"

Arguments went to and from. The debate was not as one-sided as it had been two weeks ago – not by far. Many of the Lords and Ladies on Dumbledore's side of the room were willing to speak up, this time. Some of the neutral parties, like Lady Greengrass, seemed also willing to support the girl with the phoenix and the Boy-Who-Lived. Even Malfoy's faction was not a unified block – several normally outspoken speakers were remarkably silent. The Lord Malfoy himself had not spoken a word since his son had left. But despite all this, it still wasn't looking that well, because more and more it became clear that there wasn't any way that the girl – and by extension Harry Potter – could be vindicated without denouncing Azkaban.

And that, it seemed, the Wizengamot would not do. Those in favor of release, or lowering the sentence, argued on the lines that either or both children had been well-intentioned, or that they were young and did what they _thought_ was right. Even as the question was felt on the edges of the discussion, as people like Theodorus Deas and Albus Dumbledore touched on the subject, no one asked whether it could be that the girl's action had _been_ right, rather than just _seemed_ to be so to a child. To suggest that indeed the presence of Dementors in Azkaban was wrong, rather than just politically inexpedient, was to acknowledge that they themselves, and all the colleagues in the room with them, had done evil in sending people there. She knew that some of the Wizengamot were thinking it, and not even just people on Albus's side of the room, but saying it out loud would be political suicide. She herself wasn't even sure how she felt about it, for she _did_ take a certain pleasure in knowing that people like Rastaban Lestrange were suffering for the rest of their miserable lives. But the girl's conviction had touched her, and made her feel guilty even more than the cries from Dumbledore's phoenix ever had.

Albus Dumbledore, too, was holding back. He, of all people, might have attempted to speak out against Azkaban, but there would not be enough support to lead the conversation anywhere productive. Once he did so, the inevitable backlash against the move would certainly condemn the children. As it was, it didn't seem like a vote to clear the two was any option, but the outcome _might_ be steered towards imprisonment instead of the Kiss. Hermione Granger hadn't _really_ escaped; life in Azkaban was a reasonable outcome. Harry Potter had stated that he had not intended for her to break out, so he might get away with just a few years of Dementor-free detention, and even retain his noble title. And then, with both children still alive, who knew what changes the coming war might bring?

It was not a great solution. With Voldemort returned, they couldn't afford to have the Boy-Who-Lived locked up and then, when the need arose, have the bureaucrats arguing endlessly over whether he should be released to fight his enemy. They couldn't afford to interfere with his training, or to stall his genius or alienate him too far. Even without any prophecies (which she was rather wary to read too much into), a wizard who had managed to create two new and amazing forms of magic in just his first year was an exceedingly valuable resource. Another phoenix owner fighting on their side would be a priceless asset as well. But there was only so much she could do for the children without stepping completely out of line.

And then the boy in the chair in the middle of the room spoke again.

"I find it very peculiar," he spoke, in strong, confident tones that silenced the room, "that no one has yet suggested the obvious. Dementors are the darkest creatures in existence. They _ought_ to be destroyed."

"They are useful," snapped Dolores Umbridge. "And quite loyal to the Ministry!"

"I asked some of my fellow students," the boy continued, ignoring the interruption. "They are under the impression that the only reason Dementors were posted around Azkaban is that there is little else we can do with them. That they would target us, or innocent Muggles, if we didn't willingly give them victims. And that _obviously_ if there was a way to get rid of them instead, we would do so. Yet here we are. Hermione Granger and I would be _happy_ to destroy the last Dementor in Britain for you. We would be _happy_ to extend the same courtesy to other countries. You can build a more humane prison, and everyone would be better off for it! Why have you not yet asked us to do so?"

Several of the people in the audience were nodding along, Amelia saw. They had come because they favored the defendants. But the members of the Wizengamot were not so easily swayed.

"And wait for other countries to send their Dementors as a weapon against us, when we cannot retaliate anymore?" Lord Jugson spat.

"Don't you have Patronuses? Besides, we would be happy to destroy any invading Dementor armies for you too."

"And rely on two criminals for our protection?"

Harry Potter shrugged, a movement complicated by the chains still binding his arms.

"I don't see that you have much of a choice. Rely on Patronuses or on us, but your Dementors are gone. And good too, for what would you do with them? Put them around Azkaban again, where they will drain the magic and make decent wards unmaintainable? Are you sure that you want to continue to put your worst criminals into a prison whose security is so laughable that an eleven-year old could walk them right out?"

There was silence, at that.

"How would you do _that?_," Madam Umbridge asked with one of her infuriating false giggles, "I suppose with some ancient device which you will not speak of?"

"In a much simpler way, Madam. Those who understand my version of the Patronus Charm – and I assure you that there are more people than just Hermione Granger and myself who do so now – can hide completely from the sight of, and exercise a certain control over, Dementors."

The room regarded the the boy, long seconds ticking away in silence. Then, Bartemius Crouch spoke calmly. "You bluff."

"I do not bluff lightly, sir. I –"

"No," the man cut in. He looked up to address the room. "Not two weeks ago, the boy thought he could awe this body with insane threats to our lives. Now he threatens to free our most dangerous prisoners, or have others do it for him. Are we to let a delusional child get away with such a mockery? I will grant him one thing: we will not be able to restore our prison and have peace and safety in the country while these two live. So let us execute these traitors! The penalty for the crime is clear, why are we even arguing about it?"

"You would execute the Boy-Who-Lived?" someone shouted from the visitor benches.

Barty Crouch regarded them with fire in his eyes. "I would execute any unrepentant criminal intent on throwing the country into chaos, no matter what they might have done as a baby. Anything less than Obliviating him of his discoveries would be nothing short of madness! Have you forgotten what sorts of people are sent to Azkaban?" He turned to face the Wizengamot. "Sirius Black. Augustus Rookwood. Marianna Smynth. Would you have them escape, because their guardians were killed? Would you let two people loose who are willing to risk _everything_ we've built up, to destroy these so-called 'evil' creatures, even though they are stout defenders of our country's values? I say we get rid of the threat here and now!"

"But what if he is right," Madam Tarissen asked, "and there others who know this spell?"

"Then we deal with that threat separately! What others would be daft enough to attack Azkaban after we show today that we will always uphold its most sacred rule, that any who escape or help to escape receive the Kiss? But I, for one, don't believe one word of that claim." He gestured at Hermione Granger. "The girl's testimony made it very clear that Potter never even told his best friend about this spell, leaving her to learn it only when she desperately needed it. Why would he have told others?" He turned to regard the prisoners, a gleam in his eyes. "I'm calling your bluff, boy. Are you prepared to prove your point?"

From the corner of her eye, Amelia saw Albus glance at his watch, an almost imperceptible movement, but one which she had grown to recognize. A frustrated look passed over Harry Potter's face, before he resumed his calm demeanor, and stated: "I am not about to throw anyone else at the mercy of –"

He cut off as a blazing silver woman appeared in the courtroom. to multiple gasps. The woman – the _human_ Patronus – said nothing, but simply regarded the two children.

After some brief moments of silence, Harry Potter quietly said "thank you", and the shining woman disappeared into nothingness.

With a wry smile, the Boy-Who-Lived turned his head as far as the chains would let him, allowing him to see the Dementor behind him from a corner of his eyes. Amelia couldn't see his face, couldn't guess what he was doing, but he didn't say a word, and then the Dementor backed away.

In the shocked silence in the room, the Boy-Who-Lived turned back at the Wizengamot, his eyebrows raised, a slight smile on his face.

(Amelia gave a brief, inner smirk at the shocked expressions on the people's faces, even as she had to suppress a moment of utter confusion too. Mad-Eye had casually asked her whether she was going to be so mind-numbingly stupid as to put their last Dementor anywhere near the two children, and she had formally responded that it was protocol, and she couldn't imagine what could _possibly_ go wrong with that.)

"And so you have proven your point," she heard Hector Fortescue saying. "You can indeed manipulate Dementors. And you _do not bluff lightly_. Was this how you intended to kill us all, two weeks ago?"

He paused at the gasps from the audience. The tale of the boy's antics had not spread far beyond the Wizengamot, so many people there wouldn't know. "When you threatened to cancel the Aurors' Patronuses, and send the Dementor after everyone who would not bend to your will?"

Briefly, a frown passed over the face of the Boy-Who-Lived. "I merely said I do not bluff _lightly_, sir," he confirmed. "I was certainly capable of carrying out that threat. But you overlook a simple possibility." A bitter smile twisted over his face. "Recall that I only needed to persuade _one_ person that I was serious, a person who knew perfectly well that I had invented a certain new spell."

Eyes turned to the Headmaster of Hogwarts, who slowly nodded. "I knew of the spell," he agreed. "Although not quite what it was capable of. Harry surmised correctly that I would not have risked letting him go through with it."

"And you did not warn the Ministry about a spell that could be used to break out of prison?" Lord Nott shouted indignantly.

"My dear Lord Nott, if I had said that it was possible, would anyone have _believed_ me?"

"And what if he had called your bluff?" Hector Fortescue snapped, addressing the prisoner.

"In that case," Harry Potter shrugged, "note that it was a two-stage claim. After demonstrating that I could turn off Patronuses, I daresay the second part would not have been needed. But I do realize that even threatening to do so was inexcusable." He bowed his head. "I was caught up in my emotions. Hermione was right to stop me, and I apologize sincerely for my actions that day."

The apology was a calculated gesture to avoid further pressuring on the subject, she was sure. He could be a decent politician some day.

"How could controlling Dementors cancel the Patronus Charm anyway?" Lord Usto asked, more curiously than accusing.

"By pointing out that Dementors represent Death," a dry voice somewhere in the highest of the half-circles spoke, "and the Patronus Charm simply works by thinking of other things instead."

There was a blurring movement in the air, and then a man turned visible as he dropped down right next to the large stone door. In that instant, she recognized the face of "Professor Quirrell", the man who had been the Defense Professor of Hogwarts this year. And then he had already slipped through the door and rammed it shut.

Scrimgeour's rabbit Patronus disappeared. She snapped her head to look at Shacklebolt, whose eyes were widening as he looked at the Dementor in sudden understanding, and then his lynx, too, vanished in thin air.

The Dementor, still standing in the far back of the room, rose up, its unmitigated fear spreading out from it. They all saw beneath the cloak now, the sucking hole. It was coming for them.

Amelia tried to summon her happy thought, but even as she did so, she felt that she couldn't ignore what was in front of her. But she could still think.

"_Obliviate!_ Shacklebolt, cast your Patronus _now_!"

The Auror made the right movements, but his voice faltered; he couldn't do it anymore. And the Dementor flew right towards the benches, where the people couldn't run, and Dumbledore was chanting a mighty incantation and rammed his rod to the podium, and then he threw his wand down, and she instinctively pointed her own wand to guide it, right to the children whose chains had just withdrawn. And Harry Potter jumped up, snatched the wand from the air, and yelled "_Expecto Patronum!_"

The light burst out. It was Patronus light but _more_, its power washing over her. She recognized the human shape, like the strange woman which had appeared in the courtroom earlier, before it became too bright to see, and the light touched her and filled her with a strange feeling of hope, although she didn't even know what for.

And then it was suddenly gone. Harry Potter had lowered the wand.

"Oh, I'm sorry," the boy said, not sounding sorry at all. "I should probably not have destroyed it. I realize you may still have had a purpose for it."

The boy with the scar on his forehead held up his hand, palm up, the wand on top of it. With a flick of Madam Longbottom's wand, it returned to the Chief Warlock.

* * *

Harry carefully sat back down in his seat. Dumbledore sent him an apologetic glance, and then chains snaked back across his arms, legs and neck, binding him to the chair once more. Next to him, the same was happening to Hermione.

He kept any shock off his face. Forced himself to remain perfectly calm, even as Hermione looked sick, as people were sobbing with the after-effects of ten seconds of sheer terror in the spectator benches and the Wizengamot circles alike. He had shown the controlled, confident face of the Boy-Who-Lived throughout the trial, and he wasn't going to change that now. For if he showed anything like fear, he suspected, they would be all over him like a swarm of vultures.

Still, he was feeling mildly _wobbly_ to say the least. What had Quirrell been trying to do?

Kill Harry? No, surely not. Quirrell had probably seen him make the Dementor back away after Padma's Patronus had shown itself. (This experiment – what would happen if he _threw_ the thoughts fueling his Patronus at the Dementor even without a wand – had worked surprisingly well, and had a pretty neat show-off effect, he thought.) He would have concluded that Harry could keep the Dementor away from himself.

Had Quirrell meant to kill everyone else here? Without a wand, Harry didn't think he could have stopped that. But Dumbledore had acted quickly enough to salvage the situation. Quirrell – Voldemort – had fought him before, he must have known, or at least suspected, that that would happen.

Which left the alternative possibility. _He was trying to help me._ And it might well work, too. The entire Wizengamot now owed him a life debt. Graciously releasing them might count for some goodwill (although he wasn't going to do that if he could avoid it, it was far too convenient for future favors). Plus, they might be slightly more inclined to see the value of destroying Dementors now.

And then there was the _other_ thing... The strange, powerful feeling when he had cast the True Patronus Charm with Dumbledore's wand. That hadn't been like normal. That had been... the feeling did not fit any words, except that he had the certain knowledge that there was something special about that wand.

The initial shock was subsiding; people were returning to their seats, and chocolate was being passed around. Dumbledore was saying something about how nobody should leave without getting Obliviated, and there were some very mild arguments about that, but it didn't really seem like everyone's mind was on the proceedings for the moment.

Harry turned to Hermione. "Are you okay?" he whispered.

She nodded, although she still looked somewhat white. Like him, she had kept her face calm and controlled during the trial, even when things seemed to go in the wrong direction. He didn't know whether it was an act, the phoenix's calm, or whether she had really got over being afraid of what might happen to her. He admired it all the same. _He_ had a mysterious dark side which helped him maintain a certain personality; Hermione didn't have that. Besides, she had no control over her fate at all. As the noble scion who had called this meeting, Harry was allowed to speak in his own defense, but Hermione _wasn't;_ she was formally just a commoner caught up in the same case, and not permitted to speak unless spoken to.

"Miss Granger," Amelia Bones spoke from the upper circle where she stood close to Dumbledore. Her voice cracked a little, but she took command all the same. "I suppose that this was the secret that you did not want to tell us about?"

"Yes," Hermione said quietly, although her voice was magnified for the whole room to hear anyway.

"Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt," Madam Bones continued, addressing one of the Aurors who was looking rather confused. "I do apologize – I had no time for subtlety so I simply removed the last five minutes of your memory. Would you please try casting the Patronus Charm again?"

He tried. But Harry could see it, see the little moment where he failed, couldn't ignore what he was trying to do. It was just like Professor McGonagall had told him in Diagon Alley: memory charms might remove your _memory_ of an event, but not its _effects_. On a subconscious level, Kingsley Shacklebolt would always know what he was trying to do, now. Harry felt a stab of regret at the bright and beautiful lynx that would never again be called into being.

"I... can't explain it, Madam. It feels wrong."

Madam Bones nodded. "Thank you, Shacklebolt."

"Mr. Potter." Professor Dumbledore spoke up, "Miss Granger. If this was the only reason why the spell must not be spoken of, would you be willing to share the explanation of how it is performed? It seems that none of us will be able to defend ourselves from Dementors again in the normal way. But perhaps we may learn yours?"

Hermione looked at Harry, who rapidly considered. He strongly doubted that any of the people here could do it. The kind of person who took a seat in the Wizengamot didn't seem like the kind of person who would value life over everything. Even Dumbledore didn't do that anymore; perhaps he had when he was younger, but he had lost that spark. Then again, it also wouldn't _hurt_ to tell them. If just one person in the room could do it, that would be worth it.

"The spell is called the True Patronus Charm," he said, addressing the Wizengamot and everyone in the audience, willing them to have the spell. And as for how it is performed..." He caught Hermione's eye. If _he_ told them, it would sound weird and mysterious and powerful, but otherwise only cast him in the same light he'd been building since the start of the school year. But if _Hermione_ gave this particular explanation, it would strengthen her reputation as a beacon of good in the world. And that might be a lot more useful right now, and in the future too. "Hermione, could you explain it? You have cast the spell more often than I have, these last two weeks."

She nodded, and turned to face the assembly.

"It is done by rejecting death," she explained. "Or actually it's more than that. I've cast it a lot in the last week, and the thing is, it's mostly about the _will to protect_ others. The absolute belief, to the core of your being, that everyone should and can be saved. Whether it's from death or from Dementors or from ignorance or torture... That you can make things better – no, that _we_ can make things better, as mankind, that even if you fail there will be others to carry on. Ultimately, you have to believe that there is no evil too great to overcome."

"In short," Lucius Malfoy said in a weary tone. "You have to be a child. And a naive one at that."

Nevertheless, there were some murmurs of _Expecto Patronum_. However, much like Harry had expected, none of the assembled witches and wizards could do it. He mainly looked at the spectator benches, but there, too, nobody succeeded.

(He had seen his parents there earlier, of course. But he was going to ignore that for now. He could deal with the fallout of them seeing him without his child-mask later.)

"Miss Granger, thank you for that explanation," Professor Dumbledore was saying. He was gazing intently at her. "Do you think you will need some chocolate now?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you," she said, a little surprised at the sudden question. Harry, remembering a similar question many months ago, had a pretty good idea of what had just happened.

"Who was that man?" the Lady Greengrass asked, addressing Harry. "Did you tell him this dangerous secret?"

"I did not," he answered. "But that was Professor Quirrell, or the man _calling_ himself so. I mentioned him before."

"I have spoken of this man to the Ministry," Dumbledore declared. "It is likely that he is behind the recent attacks, although his reasons are unknown to me. It seems that he has simply found out the secret by using Legilimency on Miss Granger, who, unlike Mr. Potter, is not an Occlumens." He sighed. "And as today's meeting is open to the general public, no detection charms have been performed."

"Can he also control Dementors?" Hector Fortescue asked, alarmed. Eyes turned to look at Harry again.

"No," he answered. "I don't think so. I don't think he has quite the right frame of mind for that."

"But basically," Theodorus Deas summarized, "We have a dangerous individual on our hands, who, if we are to believe Mr. Dumbledore, is quite willing to kill strangers and who can permanently cancel Patronus Charms on a whim. It is entirely likely that none of us may ever cast a Patronus again, as even Obliviation doesn't work. Might I suggest _not_ killing the only two people we know who can destroy Dementors?"

There were nodding heads, and whispers of agreement. Perhaps given more time, some of the members of the Wizengamot would have felt differently. They could have argued at least for jailtime for Harry who had, in fact, confessed to breaking into Azkaban. But at the moment, most of them were not quite over the shock yet, and perhaps others feared Harry too much to suggest it.

"If nobody else wishes to speak," the Chief Warlock spoke, looking around and pausing to wait for objections, "then I hereby close the deliberations. Madam Bones?"

The gray-haired woman stood up. "By a show of hand, those in favor of clearing Mr. Potter and Miss Granger of all charges?"

There were hands. It was almost unanimous. Lucius Malfoy did not raise his hand, Harry saw, as did some others. But he didn't know whether they were merely refraining from the vote, or would have voted against them; there would be no alternative vote with the majority already being decided.

"The vote carries, in favor," intoned the secretary, when all the tallying was done.

"Very well," Madam Bones spoke. "Mr. Potter is free to return to Hogwarts, and Miss Granger will be returned to Azkaban to serve the rest of her sentence."

... aw crap.

"Unless," she added, "Lord Malfoy would be willing to reconsider his claim on the girl?"

Lucius Malfoy stood silently, deadly, before his podium, seemingly at war with himself. But then his face relaxed.

"I suppose there is little point in sending her back to Azkaban, and wait for the next session to declare her debt moot. As my son and heir believes the girl is innocent, and does not desire her to be punished further, I shall respect his wishes. I hereby release Miss Granger from the blood debt. She is free to go."

Madam Bones turned to look at the Chief Warlock, who nodded.

"Then, in accordance with the last decision of the survivors of the eighty-eighth Wizengamot, I hereby adjourn this session."

* * *

The chains drew back.

Harry stood up, and extended a hand to Hermione.

She took it, and also stood up, Xare fluttering to her shoulder. She might have been more scared, during this trial, if not for the phoenix's comforting weight on her lap. As it was, she just massaged her leg, which had gone to sleep. "Let's not do this often," she suggested to the Boy-Who-Lived. It was a silly thing to say at this time, but other topics didn't seem much better. Then she blinked. "Wait, are those your _parents_?"

Two people in formal black wizards' robes were barreling down the visitors' stairs towards the two of them. Beyond them, others were approaching, although more slowly, but Hermione couldn't see _her_ parents. She looked closely to see whether she recognized anyone, and then she was already being swept up into a tight embrace.

"Hello Professor McGonagall," she said, when she had the chance to breathe again.

"Oh Hermione, I am _so glad_ that you're safe. I was so worried, but..." She didn't finish the sentence but just pulled Hermione extra close again.

"Professor," Hermione squeaked. "Do my parents know?"

"No." Professor McGonagall shook her head, releasing Hermione. "We told them you had Spattergroit. We'll just tell them you've recovered, and you can see them again in the summer holidays. Well, except..." She looked troubled.

"What is it?" Hermione asked. "Something with Professor Quirrell?" She had been cut off from the news for two weeks, and hadn't _quite_ known what was meant with "the recent attacks" and "the rogue Defense Professor". "Professor, what's wrong?"

"Let's not talk about that here. Today, let's just be happy for your release," Professor McGonagall said, forcing a smile. "And I believe I must stop monopolizing your time now, because I _think_ some other people may want to talk to you."

"Huh?"

Her hand was grabbed and shaken up and down by a tiny, excitable-looking wizard wearing a purple top hat.

"So delighted, Miss Granger, so honored! Oh, to hear the news... It gave me hope in my old age, Miss. Children really are the future. Oh, how marvelous to meet you!"

"Who..."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Diggle is the name, Dedalus Diggle. When Emmeline told me about the Dementors... No, no, it was too wonderful. Thank you, Miss, thank you!"

"You're welcome," she muttered, not really knowing what else to say, and Dedalus Diggle looked over his shoulder and let go off her hand and turned away, sending her a last delighted smile. Instantly her hand was grabbed again, by a woman with tears in her eyes. "Oh Miss Granger, I am so glad they let you go, you deserved to be free, bless you, oh God bless you. My sister is in Azkaban..."

* * *

"Dad," Harry said, when Michael let go of his hug, "You look weird in robes."

"Yes, well..." Michael shrugged. "Your Headmaster said it would be for the best."

"He's probably right," Harry nodded. "Mum, I'm sorry you had to see that. I would have preferred for you not to have to worry like that..."

"I wanted to come... But that creature..." Petunia shuddered, and Michael put his arm around her comfortingly. He felt much the same, even if he tried to hide it. When those silver animals had disappeared, the fear and despair that had washed over him... And the things he had remembered... It was a horrible idea that they had put prisoners – even a twelve-year-old child! – next to a whole nest of those things. If Amnesty ever discovered about this one, they'd have a field day.

"I'll be okay, Harry," Petunia assured her son, smiling weakly. "Although I think I'll probably have some nightmares tonight."

"We have a potion for that." The Deputy Headmistress had joined them. "Dr. and Mrs. Verres, I am sorry to steal you away from your son for now, but I think there are a few other people who may want some of his time. You will have time to talk later."

She gently drew them aside, as witches and wizards from the spectator benches flocked towards Harry.

"Who are all those people?" Michael asked.

"Admirers," the witch said softly. "Just people who want to shake his hands, bless him, or thank him. Maybe they just want to tell their grandchildren they once met him. Your son has invented a spell that does something considered impossible since the dawn of recorded history – and he has executed it in front of all our eyes. You have not lived in our world, so you may not understand it, but what he has done, and what Hermione has done, will go down into the history books around the world."

_Ah._

Michael watched Harry, shaking the hand of a witch in faded brown robes, while the boy looked slightly awkward. He didn't look like that too-adult person anymore, the young man who had spoken in calm, commanding tones despite being chained to his chair and guarded at wandpoint like a dangerous prisoner. Now, he seemed like a child again, if a mature one. But Michael had seen, and he'd heard Harry's words just a few days ago: "I'm not really a child anymore."

And he wasn't. Michael wasn't sure _what_ Harry was anymore, but children did not defend themselves and their friends in court, they did not invent spells that went into history books, and they didn't feel responsible for fighting dark wizards. Somehow or other, Harry had grown up without even going through puberty, and it was going to be up to his parents to catch up.

"Excuse me, sir, madam?" A crimson-robed man with a mane of tawny hair and bushy eyebrows had approached them. "I would like to Obliviate you now."

Michael blinked. "What exactly does that mean?"

The man quirked his eyebrows. "To remove your memories of the secret. No one may leave this place without that precaution."

"Ah, sir, I am not sure that is necessary..." Michael began. "I mean, I would like to remember what happened today..."

"Don't worry, sir, you will," the man reassured him. "I will only remove the knowledge of the secret itself, and lock away the explanation of the spell. If you should ever learn the former, the latter will be unlocked."

Without waiting for permission, the man pointed his wand. "_Obliviate._" Michael experienced a brief moment of disorientation.

"Thank you sir. Madam, if I may?"

* * *

"Daphne told me a lot about you. I am sure you will go on to do great things," Lady Greengrass was saying. She had come over after most of the other hand-shakers had left (Dedalus Diggle had come back three more times), and had sincerely apologized for voting against Hermione that last time. "Even greater than you did Friday, perhaps."

"Thank you, my Lady." She had fallen into a little routine of phrases like that.

"That is a beautiful phoenix." The Lady extended a hand to Xare, who just looked at it curiously. "What's his name?"

"Her," she corrected. "She's Xare."

"Does it mean anything?"

"No," she shrugged. "I just liked the sound."

"And I think," came a booming voice from behind, "that it is time that we free Xare from the restrictive charms on her." Professor Dumbledore was walking up to them, pointing his wand at the phoenix. Fawkes was looking at Xare curiously.

"_Caw,_" Xare said happily.

"Until we meet again, Miss Granger." Lady Greengrass bowed gracefully, and departed.

"You don't look so well," Hermione observed to the Headmaster, who did seem rather tired.

"I am worried, Miss Granger," he sighed. "That is all. I am certainly glad that you are free, but I fear the consequence of today's events."

"Professor..." she pressed. "What is going on?"

He shook his head. "Not here. Come to my office after you have had lunch." Then, louder, "Dedalus, I am sure the boy needs some rest."

Dedalus Diggle, who was now shaking hands with Harry, bopped one last time and then, reluctantly, left towards the door. Now only Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, the two parents and Harry and herself were left.

"Miss Granger," the headmaster said, still looking tired, but smiling a little now. "I do believe I ought to teach you some nice tricks on how to use a phoenix. Mr. and Mrs. Verres, would you hold hands, please? And with Harry and Professor McGonagall, too?"

They all did as they were bid, looking slightly confused in the case of the two Muggles.

"Now, Miss Granger, phoenixes can carry incredible weights. In fact, anything they carry gets lighter. You can transport up to fifty people at once, as long as they all hold each other tightly."

She grabbed Harry's hand. She was a bit nervous about this one. She'd never traveled by phoenix before, and it would be Xare's first time, too. "And then?"

"Just picture the place where you want to go in your head, and ask your phoenix to take you. They accept mental commands. You must hold her too."

She envisioned the Great Hall, took Xare's claw in her hand, and thought: _Can you take me there, Xare?_ For a brief moment, she felt herself turn almost weightless. And then she caught on fire.


	18. Chapter 98: Nihil Supernum, Aftermaths

**CHAPTER 98: NIHIL SUPERNUM, PT 5 – AFTERMATHS**

* * *

Hermione stood doubtfully before the gargoyles.

After _catching on fire_ and blazing up in the mostly abandoned Great Hall (that _had_ been a pretty wonderful experience – far better than the portkeys the Aurors had used to transport her from and to the Ministry), Professor McGonagall had gone to her office while Harry led her and his parents to a pleasant little apartment she hadn't seen before. There, they had had lunch (lunchtime was over, but Professor McGonagall had promised to have food sent over there anyway). Hermione had been bursting with questions, but with Harry's parents there, she didn't dare ask them. Dr. Verres-evans and Mrs. Evans-Verres were obviously trying to project confidence towards their son, but it was abundantly clear that they had been pretty shocked by the whole situation. So she and Harry had gently filled a little conversation with talk about phoenixes and their abilities (Harry's father _had_ seemed rather interested in the idea of using phoenixes for space travel, and had made a number of interesting suggestions), and then left afterwards so the two adults could have their breakdown in peace.

Harry had proposed going to Professor Dumbledore with her, but then Vincent Crabbe had come and ordered Harry to "da boss". She wasn't invited and couldn't come along to say thank you (she'd have to find a way to do that afterwards, preferably not in public as he might not want to be seen associating too much with a Muggleborn), so she'd gone to Dumbledore's office alone.

But the gargoyles, she realized, hadn't been informed of the appointment, and she didn't know the password. Should she go to Professor McGonagall, or...

She looked at Xare, who cawed in agreement. You couldn't Apparate or Disapparate in Hogwarts, but a phoenixes did not seem to be subject to such restrictions. She pictured the end of the spiraling stairway in her mind, right before the door, and grabbed the phoenix's claw. One burst of flame later, she stood at the place she had imagined, and knocked. The door opened.

The Headmaster of Hogwarts, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards was sitting behind his desk, a twinkle in his eyes.

"Ah, Miss Granger," he said brightly. "Do come in. I was wondering whether you would use the door or simply come straight into the office."

"That wouldn't be polite," Hermione answered, as she stepped inside and the door automatically closed behind her. She sat down into the deep, fluffy chair that was placed on the other side of the desk.

"Indeed it would not, but those of us who enjoy the company of a phoenix do not always observe such niceties. Anyway..." Some of his earlier seriousness returned. "Has Mr. Potter already updated you on the events of the last two weeks?"

"No," she shook her head. "we were with his parents, you see, and..."

"They have quite enough to be going on with, yes. Well, then I suppose I shall give you the rough overview. Miss Granger, Lord Voldemort didn't really die when he attacked Mr. Potter some ten years ago. I knew he could not have – there were many reasons to believe that he had taken precautions against physical death, and is effectively immortal until we find out how to negate those precautions – but have kept it a secret to avoid widespread panic. I also hoped that the respite would be long enough to rebuild our world and increase our strengths before the next war comes, although I fear it may have come too soon. The man you know as Quirinius Quirrell was in fact the shade of Lord Voldemort, possessing the body of what I suspect was initially a willing victim. Since Harry realized the connection last week, Quirrell has fled the school, and gone on to terrorize Muggles, by sending an army of Inferi against a town in Scotland and by attacking all children and teachers in a primary school in Wales. Hundreds of Muggles have died in the last week, and almost a thousand have been severely wounded or permanently maimed, while I have honestly no clue what his purpose is. He was, of course, also behind the event that had you sent to Azkaban, which, given that he saved Mr. Malfoy's life, seems to have been solely aimed at you – or rather, at manipulating Harry by putting you in danger. Oh, and there is a prophecy that identifies Harry as Voldemort's destined enemy, who will grow up to be his equal, and will have power he knows not."

She blinked. "That's rather a lot to take in at once."

"I do apologize for dumping this on you, Miss Granger. But whether you wish it or not, you are involved now. Voldemort has chosen to use you twice. What is more, as the second person in our country with a phoenix – and, indeed, the first without a tainted history – people will look to you for protection."

It was a little too much. _War?_ Hundreds of deaths? And _Professor Quirrell_ being _Voldemort_? She knew all about the last war, of course. Everyone did. The idea of all that starting over was terrifying. And Dumbledore expected _her_ to take a lead in the fight?

But she could see, in her mind's eye, a town full of Muggles getting slaughtered by Inferi. She could see the faces of her Housemates, who almost never spoke of their family because there was always someone in earshot who'd lost someone dear to them. And she could imagine Hannah, and Parvati, and Hufflepuff Mike and even some people she only knew by face, and the idea of any of them getting hurt was just too terrible and _of course_ she'd do what she could to stop that, but what _could_ she do... Xare nuzzled her face affectionately.

_No savior hath the savior..._

"I'm only twelve," she whispered desperately.

"And yet you are a hero, Miss Granger," he said with a sad smile. "And always will be."

"What would you have me do?"

"Nothing, for now. I merely wished you to be prepared for the inevitable. Ultimately, this battle really is Harry's, for he is Voldemort's destined enemy. But he could never be everywhere at once, and other heroes will be needed. As for the present, there are different concerns. I believe Harry's book list for you contained an introductory text on Occlumency?"

"Yes," she answered. This seemed like safer ground. "But I didn't get very far. These exercises seem really hard."

"I would not expect you to succeed them so quickly. In fact, you are too young. Occlumency lessons are generally not attempted before the age of fifteen at least. But in your case, it _is_ dangerous that you cannot hide your thoughts. Therefore, we should perhaps arrange something after all."

"But if I can't learn it yet..."

"I sincerely doubt that you will be able to succeed a complete block, at your age. But with enough training, you may be able to detect intrusion, and that will already be helpful. The question is _how_ to train you. We went to quite some lengths not to spread any knowledge of the secret revealed in today's proceedings beyond those who can use it to cast the spell. But anyone teaching you Legilimency would certainly learn of all you least wish to be known..."

That didn't sound particularly pleasant, even if she wasn't trying to hide anything important.

"... so whichever instructor we find you must agree to be Obliviated afterwards." He looked briefly tired. "But that would not be enough, would it?"

Her thoughts flashed back to the panicked look on the face of the Obliviated Auror, Shacklebolt, when he failed to recast his Patronus the first time.

"How about someone who was at the trial?" she suggested. "_They_ couldn't be harmed further."

The Headmaster shook his head. "I would gladly teach you myself, Miss Granger, but that must not be. Remember that _two_ pieces of information were removed by the Aurors after the trial. One, the secret that will curse you to be forever unable to cast a Patronus Charm. The other, the way of casting the True Patronus Charm. If I should learn the former, then the latter will be unlocked, and _that_ a simple half-hour Obliviation would not remove. Taking into account that the agreement we made crucially relies on _everybody_ accepting the Obliviation, Lucius Malfoy would not be pleased if he learned that I had been told the secret afterwards." He sighed. "A flaw which I really should have considered at the time."

"I see." She thought about it. "So it would need to be someone who wasn't at the trial, and who already cannot cast the Patronus Charm."

"Would that be enough?" He asked.

"Yes, I think so. If he or she gets Obliviated afterwards, at least."

The Headmaster nodded. "Very well, I shall arrange that." He extended a hand to Xare, who, after a questioning look at her, hopped gently onto his hand. "Now. About your family... Harry has insisted that his parents stay here, for their protection. I didn't think it necessary at first, but on closer consideration, he might well be right. However, I do not believe yours are in a similar danger."

_Danger?_ "Would V– You-Know-Who attack them?"

"No, I don't think so. He stands little to gain – his interest seems to be focused on Harry, and Harry, I believe, would not be severely affected by your parents' death. You have been targeted, but only for Harry's sake. I _will_ ward your parents, of course, in as unobtrusive a way as possible. But I don't think it would be a good idea to uproot their lives."

Hermione nodded. "Can I see them, though?"

Professor Dumbledore gently rubbed the firebird's beak. "With a phoenix, you can go many places, so you could visit your parents if you wished. However, I do urge you to be careful. As far as they know, you are sick with Spattergroit – a very infectious disease, which keeps them from visiting you, and which would have explained your death if your sentence had ended differently. It might be wisest if you do not suddenly 'recover' in one day – they may become suspicious and press you for the real tale, and you must know that parents of Muggleborns tend not to respond well to hearing that their child has faced danger. What is more, if you leave the protection of the Hogwarts wards, you might make a target of yourself, and thereby also endanger your parents. Do you understand, Miss Granger?"

"I guess so." She felt a sad little twang of disappointment, but it did make sense. She would just write them letters, or use her Patronus to talk to them, and that would have to be enough. She couldn't _really_ talk to them anyway. They wouldn't understand what was going on in her life, and if she told them what had happened to her they'd go mad with fear... For the first time ever, she wished that she had a wizard relative to talk to, someone who would understand her world, who could relate to what she'd gone through. Professor McGonagall was close, but it wasn't quite the same.

"What are you thinking of?" The Headmaster asked gently.

"I was wondering..." She looked at the ancient man, who had known her grandmother, spent months with her. "You were a friend of Elizabeth Beckett, weren't you?"

"Yes," he said sadly. "I do apologize for not telling you about her, but I felt it was not my place."

"That's okay. I was just wondering... Do you have any pictures of her?"

He hesitated, but only briefly. Then he stood up. "Come."

* * *

Draco's face did not betray anything when Harry stepped into the otherwise abandoned classroom Crabbe had led him to. He could not guess what his friend was thinking. But he knew what _he_ should say.

"Thank you."

Draco looked at him coldly.

"Thank you," Harry repeated. "You might well have saved my and Hermione's Life today."

"I didn't do it for you," Draco said with a slight sneer to his voice. "I did it for Granger."

Now _that_ was something you wouldn't expect to hear every day from that particular direction.

_I'm sorry,_ Harry did not say, for he _wasn't_, and still he had to stop himself from blurting it out. Today, Draco Malfoy had stood up against his father to defend a Muggleborn, which would probably never have happened without Harry's manipulation, and that was a wonderful event that might well reshape the future political landscape of magical Britain, but Harry could only imagine what it might have cost the boy.

"You swore enmity on my house," Draco said, his voice controlled.

Oh. Right. He had totally forgotten about that.

"Draco, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it! It was just... I was trying to find anything to say that would stop your father from sending Hermione to Azkaban."

"And you honestly thought _that_ would work?"

"Your father seemed scared of me. It was the only thing I could think of then. I'm sorry, I _wasn't_ thinking properly."

There was a brief look of consternation on Draco's face, as though he was remembering something relevant. But then his features turned cool again.

"My father asked me to suggest that we dismiss the enmity between our Houses. Do you accept?"

"Of course."

"Very well. I shall let him know."

"Draco..."

"I won't consider you my enemy anymore. But let's get one more part straight." Draco was staring at him now, a fierce light in his eyes. "_You wronged me. And you owe me._"

"Acknowledged," Harry said quietly. "Conditional on the rest of it, of course."

Draco nodded. Then his face relaxed.

"Speaking of debts," he said in an artificially light tone. "Have you determined whether Dumbledore deserves your enmity yet?"

"Actually," Harry answered, "I wanted to talk to you about that."

"You're not going to chicken out on me, are you?"

"No. The thing is... I _have_ made progress. I asked him about the things you told me – well, not about his sister, that would just be too personal, but the other stuff – and he had some surprisingly good explanations..."

"_Good explanations?_" Draco repeated incredulously. The anger seeped from his voice.

"I'm not saying – look. About the Grindelwald thing..." he paused a moment, giving Draco time to calm down.

Dumbledore had told him that Grindelwald had a dread device that made him truly invincible – at least while his Muggle pawns were providing him with blood sacrifices. Without those sacrifices, his defences had still been impenetrable even by the most powerful wizard alive.

And Harry had a pretty good idea what that dread device was.

He'd _felt_ it, when he held Dumbledore's wand. The sheer power running through his fingers. Another man's wand was supposed to be _less_ powerful than your own, but this one felt somehow _right_, even as there was the sense that it was not _his_...

The feeling reminded him a lot of his cloak.

He had not recognized the dark wood, which meant that it could well be elder, a very unusual material for wands. And if Dumbledore possessed the elder wand, the Deathly Hallow that was supposed to increase its wielder's spell power by a thousandfold, making him or her truly undefeatable, there was one obvious place where he might have got it. Grindelwald could not be defeated with spells alone. His shields unbreakable, his attacks insanely powerful. But while Dumbledore could dodge Grindelwald's spells, and keep attacking to drain his magical power, eventually exhaustion would set in. It was, quite possibly, the only flaw of the unbeatable wand.

And Dumbledore had asked him not to speak of it, for none must suspect that he possessed the device in question. And that made sense too, as there were probably a lot of wizards who would happily murder him in his sleep for it, or else attempt to steal it. And it would be _dangerous_, for such a person to hold such a wand. Much safer to keep it in Dumbledore's hands who was, at least, not trying to use it against other people.

"He gave me an explanation, but he made me swear not to tell anyone."

"Oh, _come on_."

"I wasn't sure whether to believe him at first, but I have seen proof since. On my art as a rationalist, I promise that by my best judgment, I think he was telling the truth: he had a very good reason to postpone his attack, he really did fight until Grindelwald fell over in exhaustion, and he also has a good reason not to speak of it."

Draco frowned, but he seemed to consider the words at their value, at least.

"I'm not sure what to think of that."

"And you shouldn't be," Harry shrugged. "I can promise you that I judged as best as I could, but it's perfectly reasonable to want to see the evidence with your own eyes rather than just taking my word for it. That's what scientists _do_. But at least this should tell you that an alternative explanation exists, and that it can seem convincing enough to at least mild scrutiny by a rational person."

Draco nodded, his mouth a thin line. "And the rest of it?"

_Careful now._ If it was difficult for _Harry_ to objectively assess the morality of torturing an innocent to death for cool utilitarian considerations, it would be a lot harder for Draco, whose mother had _been_ said innocent.

"Did your father ever tell you about the circumstances of... your mother's death? I mean, did he tell you _why_ Dumbledore said he did that?"

"Dumbledore just told him it was a _warning_." Draco's voice broke. "A _warning_! What kind of warning is that?"

"But your father never told you what the warning was for?"

"What does it matter? He just wanted to hurt father! He's evil!" The last words came out as a scream.

"People don't usually do evil just for the sake of evil, Draco. And Dumbledore has a phoenix, he _can't_ do evil without at least believing that it serves a noble purpose, don't you see? If he just... If he killed your mother for revenge on your father or some other petty reason, Fawkes would leave him! So if he really did it, he _has_ to have had a reason, that was enough that he could at least convince _himself_ that it was worth it."

Draco was breathing heavily. "Like. _What?_" He glared at Harry. "How can you even _consider_ that there is a good reason for _that_?"

"Draco..." Harry looked him in the eyes. "How many innocents has your father tortured to death, or delivered into Voldemort's hands?"

Draco gasped and stepped back, as though hit by a physical blow. "That is... I don't... That was not the same thing at all and you know it!"

"Isn't it?" Harry spread his hands helplessly. "Consider the reverse situation. Suppose Dumbledore _didn't_ just take your mother, but he burned other relatives of Death Eaters as well, and his friends _helped_ him do that... And then suppose your father got the wife of one of those friends in his hands..."

"Stop." Draco had turned his face away. There was a sob in his voice.

Harry fell silent. He wasn't mad or cruel enough to push his friend. What he'd just done to him was bad enough.

It was a while before Draco spoke again.

"That _does_ sound an awful lot like revenge."

Harry shook his head. "It was a standoff. You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters had no qualm hurting the families of those who resisted them, because they believed Dumbledore would never retaliate in kind."

Draco just stood there, his back still turned to Harry.

"I don't _know_ whether he did it," Harry said eventually. It was a risk, perhaps, to raise this possibility, for if Lord Malfoy would come to believe that Dumbledore had lied it would endanger light-side families again. But surely Voldemort would have thought of this too, and _he_ had accepted the standoff. "He had every motive to take the credit if someone else did it. Or maybe he killed her, but he didn't _burn_ her, and he just faked the evidence."

Draco shook his head. "No."

After a while, he turned around. His face looked a bit red, but otherwise coolly controlled.

"He still owes us a debt, no matter how good his reasons might have been. So, are you taking him as your enemy or not?"

"I still don't _know_ whether he did it, Draco," Harry pointed out. "I know _why_ he did it, _if_ he did it. But," (as the boy started looking angry again) "I have taken first steps towards taking him as my enemy. I don't accept him as my mentor, or follow his little plans. And I _don't_ trust his judgment. Frankly, I was rather _peeved_ when he stopped me from buying Hermione free, and that's just one example. Is that enough, for now?"

Draco just looked at him.

"I don't think I am ready to deliberately go and destabilize him, even if I could," Harry clarified. Draco seemed to be demanding more, but that, Harry was not quite ready to give yet. "I don't like what your father is doing very much either, and whatever else, Dumbledore _does_ put a check on him. Also, he is legally my guardian and he could make my life really hard, if he wanted to." _That, and I may need his help to deal with the Voldemort problem. I don't think Lucius Malfoy would be as co-operative, even if I _did_ help him get rid of Dumbledore._"

"Go," Draco said softly.

"Draco..."

"Just go."

He went.

* * *

A deep silence hung over this room, a stark contrast to the office below. A crystal globe hung on the ceiling, casting a silver light over the black walls and floor. And below that, rows upon rows of pedestals with photos, broken wands and other objects. Her breath stopped in her throat as her mind refused to process what she was seeing.

"What is this place?" she whispered, although most of her already knew.

"Think of it as a graveyard," the Headmaster answered.

_No,_ she thought, _not a graveyard_. This was far more than that, for, she suspected, he had known every single one of the people here. Godric Gryffindor might have had a room like this, for the many friends he had lost in battle. But she had never thought of Albus Dumbledore in that way, and it almost broke her heart to see the kind old hero here among the keepsakes of the fallen. He had done so much, and lost so many.

"Come." He strode through the pedestals, and with only a little hesitation she followed him, until they reached ...

She blinked. Upon the pedestal where he stopped was a picture of _herself_, not moving, because it was the one she recognized as her last school photo before Hogwarts. Beside the photo lay her wand, unbroken. He took it, and silently handed it to her.

"I suppose this pedestal will not be needed anymore," he said matter-of-factly, taking the picture and putting it somewhere into a pocket of his robes. Then he tapped the pedestal with his wand and it sunk down into the ground. He stepped to the side, leading her to the pedestal next to this one, which bore a single photo and a cylinder.

"This," he said, "is your grandmother."

The woman in the picture was about thirty years old. Short of stature, she thought (although it was hard to tell in a photo) and a bit squatty, with dark hair hanging loosely down her back. She seemed kind, even though there was a strong, unyielding expression in those dark-brown eyes.

There was no wand on the pedestal, not even a broken one. Most other pedestals _did_ hold a wand, and Dumbledore had been with her when she died, hadn't he? That was what he had told her before, when speaking of his battle against Grindelwald: _fewer remember Elizabeth Beckett who died opening the way so I could pass through_. Had another relative inherited it? Or...

"What happened to her wand?" she asked. Her voice came out sounding almost normal.

"It was shattered," Dumbledore says simply.

_But he doesn't say when_, she thought. Had Elizabeth Beckett lost her wand in the battle where her brother died, and later fought with his wand in place of her own? She almost asked whether he would consider himself a _friend of the family_, but she knew better than to do that. She was not an Occlumens yet, and if the Headmaster was the one who had helped Harry help her, it would be better for her not to know.

She looked at the picture again, wondering about the woman she had never known, but with whom she still felt a connection. What had she been like? Gryffindor, Head Girl, brilliant scholar and extremely brave. But those were just words, it still didn't let her _know_ her.

"Come," the Headmaster said gently. "It does not do to dwell on the past. And I daresay you will want to write to your parents and let them know that you have started to recover from your Spattergroit."

She allowed him to steer her away, down the stairs, back to office where Xare waited for her on Fawkes's golden podium.

* * *

Draco was lying in his bed, silent tears streaming over his face.

It wasn't fair.

Why did Harry keep doing this? Wasn't it enough that he'd taken Draco's belief in blood purity, did he have to whittle away at his grasp of good and evil too?

The painful thing, the horrible thing was that a part of him realized that the Boy-Who-Lived was right. Dumbledore _hadn't_ done any evils, as far as he knew, that father would not have done in his place. Even killing his sister – if a Squib girl was born in the _Malfoy_ family, it was not at all inconceivable that she would have an accident before anyone ever found out about it. And the thing with Grindelwald... he didn't think father could have pulled that one off, but if he could get away with it, he _would_ have, and Harry had seemed quite certain that Dumbledore hadn't even done that anyway.

And yet of course, _obviously_ Dumbledore was evil. But if you started thinking like that, you had to wonder about Lucius Malfoy too...

Draco sobbed, and cursed the day in Diagon Alley when he first met Harry Potter.

* * *

"Mum. Dad. What are your plans?"

It hadn't been long after his meeting with Draco that Harry had realized that there was a very important thing he had forgotten to discuss. Excitement of the day notwithstanding, tomorrow classes in Oxford would start again and Professor Verres-Evans might be tempted to return to work. So Harry had quickly aborted his stride towards the Ravenclaw common room, and turned into the corridor that led to his parents' apartment instead.

"We're staying here," mother answered.

"Oh, that's great," Harry said with a surge of relief. "You believe in the danger now, then?"

"Your Headmaster was here just a few minutes ago," father said. "Apparently he's already arranged for me to have had a severe 'accident' while on holiday in Canada. I am now apparently staying in a private clinic there, and it will expectedly take at least until the end of the semester before I am fully recovered." He shrugged. "It would have been more polite if he'd asked us first whether we agreed with the arrangement, but it seems that I'm now on sick leave for the rest of the school year, and I don't mind that. Today's events have made me realize that, well, you appear to be caught up in something larger than I would have expected, and whether your mother and I are in danger or not, we'd both prefer to be here to support you when necessary."

"Thanks, dad," Harry sad. "And mum. It does mean a lot to me." Knowing that his parents were as safe as Dumbledore could make them was helpful, although not quite enough to not worry about their safety at all. But if Voldemort could break into the school, then he could also hurt Hermione, or Draco, or any of his other friends, so at least he didn't need to be _more_ worried about his parents than about all the other people he cared about.

They ate for some moments in silence (baked potatoes with salad and chicken legs – Harry _did_ miss the more magical kinds of food when he was eating with his parents, but he figured it would be safer to wait another week before he would risk introducing those).

"So I guess you'll be having a lot of time for research this semester, dad? With no teaching duties to distract you?" Harry asked.

"No, actually," Professor Verres-Evans said. "Your Headmaster has offered your mother and me both positions as guest lecturers."

"_What?_ What will you be teaching?"

"Muggle Studies," mother said. "I'll be telling third-years about daily life in Oxford and I'll give an introduction to law to the fourth-year students. Your father will teach some basic ideas of science to the sixth-years."

"Indeed," father added. "Apparently Professor McGonagall was intrigued with some of the ideas you told her about, even if she considered them quite absurd." He showed a brief smile. "I suppose I am going to have an interesting time with this."

"Oh yes." Harry answered, a gleam in his eyes as he imagined the primarily pureblood students getting introduced to ideas such as a court system where _innocent until proven guilty_ applied, or learning about questioning your beliefs and the experimental method. He was pretty sure the Headmaster was planning to shake the students up a little, at least where his mother was concerned. Perhaps Dumbledore had only intended for his father to explain the _results_ of science, but Harry knew him too well to doubt the lesson plan. "You two are going to be _awesome_."

* * *

Hermione sat down in the library, and started writing.

_Dear Mum and Dad –_

She stopped. It had all seemed somewhat logical when Professor Dumbledore said it, somehow, but that was not the same as actually _doing_ it. She really didn't want to lie to her parents, even if she did understand the need not to tell them enough to upset them. Her mother had not been too enthusiastic about sending her to Hogwarts in the first place, and if they learned of even a fraction of the dangers she had faced, they would definitely try to pull her out. And then, if they succeeded, it would paint a huge target over them, but if they failed, she might just end up being Obliviated from her parents' mind. She couldn't deal with that.

Her hand trembled on the paper. She didn't know what to write that wouldn't be a deception. Maybe she should just send her Patronus? But then, they'd certainly ask about the Spattergroit, and she wouldn't be able to keep herself from telling the truth, and they'd be _frantic_.

She crumpled up the page and E_verto_d it. Maybe she'd just ask Harry's mother for advice in the morning. She, at least, would definitely understand.

* * *

In his office, the Headmaster of Hogwarts spun his Time-Turner four times, and set off to find Padma Patil. If anyone would benefit from being told how to send a Patronus to someone else, and at what time doing so might just be a good idea, the girl whom Harry Potter had named his heir was probably it.

* * *

When Hermione entered the Great Hall for the after-holiday feast, Xare riding on her shoulder, there was a sudden hush.

Everyone turned to stare at her.

And then the applause started.

It started at the Gryffindor table, of course, but then the others joined in. Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff... Even a fair few Slytherins were clapping, which surprised her briefly until she realized that of course a fair few of the children in that House had relatives in Azkaban.

She arrived at the Ravenclaw table and sat down next to Su. Harry, who had apparently walked in right after her, sank down on her other side.

"I'm glad you're back," Padma said from where she was sitting on the opposite side of the table.

"So am I," she said. And she was, even as she suppressed a brief note of sadness because nothing ever would be the same again. She had gone to Azkaban, and returned with a phoenix. There was a war going on, and sooner or later she might be called upon to protect her friends as well as strangers. The days of plotting battle tactics against Harry and Draco, caring about house points and telling everyone that Harry was not her boyfriend were over. But still, it was good to be back home at Hogwarts.

* * *

Harry got the Slytherin delivery after dinner, and read it later inside his trunk.

_I did it._

-LL


	19. Chapter 99: Day of the Dementors

**CHAPTER 99: DAY OF THE DEMENTORS  
**

* * *

"Harry? You must wake up."

Harry groggily opened his eyes, and looked at the aged face of the Headmaster. It felt like he'd hardly gone to bed at all. "Wazza time?"

"Quarter past six in the morning. Get up, and get dressed. Hurry."

"Six?" Indignation rose, together with a slight headache. "Professor, I need at _least_ four more hours of sleep." After the trial, the Aurors had returned his pouch, cloak and wand, but not his Time-Turner. Time-Turners were a privilege, not a right, and it would probably require some negotiation before they returned one to a boy who had confessed as blatant a disregard for the law as Harry had. So Harry, exhausted though he was after all the events of the day, hadn't managed to fall asleep until one in the morning.

"You do not have that luxury today. I already gave you as long as I could."

The words hardly penetrated his muddled consciousness, but there was something in the old wizard's tone... "What happened?"

"You will know soon. But tell me this, if you would: whom did you teach your Patronus spell to besides Miss Granger? Was there more than one other? Many lives may depend on this."

The sleep fell off him and was replaced by terror. _What is going on?_ He registered, now, that the old wizard was looking extremely serious this morning.

"Padma Patil and Lesath Lestrange," he whispered. He couldn't think of what else to say.

"Lestrange?" The Headmaster looked briefly surprised, but almost immediately regained his composure. "That's good news. I shall wake the others now, and then come back to bring you to my office."

The ancient wizard waited until Harry had pushed away the blankets and started to move – probably to see that he wasn't going to fall asleep again – and then disappeared in a burst of flame.

* * *

Five minutes later, the four of them stood together in the Headmaster's Office. Sleepy, worried faces gazed around. Lesath looked very out of place. At least the headache was gone, after Xare had chirped a few notes of phoenix song.

With a wave of the Headmaster's wand, two large sofas appeared. "Sit," he suggested.

"In a bit over an hour time," he spoke gravely, after they had obeyed, "the man you know as Professor Quirrell will strike again." He glanced at Lesath as he said this, perhaps wondering how the boy would react if he knew that Professor Quirrell was the same man whom his parents had sworn their lives to. "Almost every single person on earth will hear an announcement in their own language, revealing the true nature of Dementors."

Hermione gasped. She had been there, so she understood. Harry felt his heart sinking deeply. _How many Dementors exist in the world?_

"Wait, how do you know that?" Padma asked. The Headmaster nodded to her.

"This," he said, taking a Time-Turner from his pocket and showing them all, "is a Time-Turner. Every turn allows you to go back in time one hour, but there are limitations. No person, object or even information can go back further than six hours, no matter how many Time-Turners are used. A single Time-Turner cannot be used more than six times in any twenty-four hour period, and a single person cannot go back more than six times in such a period. And most importantly, you _cannot_ change the past. Doing anything that would cause a contradiction will have great and terrible consequences. Time has Laws, even if we do not fully comprehend how they work."

"I don't understand," Lesath said. "Why are you telling us this? What's the problem?"

"If you know the truth about Dementors, you cannot cast the normal Patronus Charm anymore," Harry explained.

"Ah," he said, eyes widening. "Gotcha."

"So I guess..." Padma said. "You want _us_ to cast our Patronuses?"

"Indeed. With ordinary wizards no longer able to protect themselves and others from their power, Dementors are without a doubt the most dangerous and uncontainable creatures in existence. They need to be destroyed as quickly as possible."

"Why are you only telling us this _now_?" Hermione demanded. "If you have time travel... we could have been destroying Dementors five hours ago!"

The old wizard sighed wearily. "You could not. As I said, time has Laws, and it seems that our former Defense Professor has taken some precautions to back us into a corner. Madam Bones, when she heard the message, instantly resolved to warn you and Mr. Potter before it happened, but she found that it would create a contradiction. She couldn't go back further than four hours at all, which suggests that Quirrell has acquired a Time-Turner of his own somehow, or at least gathered information from the future before sending his message. It took her almost fifteen minutes to formulate a plan that allowed her to go back in time at all, as most of the preparations she considered were blocked. She _could_ shield her Aurors from hearing the message, but another note from the future has already informed us that those protections will fail. The main thing she could do was to rally a number of people, who have been working through the night to prepare for the moments _after_ the message is given. Hopefully, our precautions will make the inevitable less of a disaster, although disaster it will certainly be."

Hermione swallowed. "People are going to die, aren't they?"

The Headmaster bowed his head. "Thousands, if we are really lucky. Billions, if we are not."

"_Billions?_" Hermione gasped, sounding horrified.

"No way," Harry said flatly. "Quirrell would never orchestrate an extinction event. There is no conceivable benefit to him."

The old wizard raised an eyebrow. "Are you quite sure of that?"

"Well... no."

The Headmaster nodded. "We don't know what he wants, so we cannot count on anything. I suspects he went into it with future knowledge, knowing that whatever goal he aims to achieve will be furthered, or at least not harmed, by today's events. But that will most likely not prevent massive casualties. Children, I must ask... Will you help? I do not pretend it will be easy – in fact, despite our precautions this will almost certainly put your lives in danger – but can I ask you to fight today for the sake of the world?

"Of course," Hermione promptly answered. Harry also nodded, although a sick knot of fear twisted in his stomach. _How many Dementors are there on earth?_ Would four of them be enough? Just the Dementors around Azkaban had nearly killed Hermione, and that was with a phoenix to help her.

"Of course I'll do what I can..." Padma was saying with a tremble in her voice. "But I've only done the spell when there weren't any Dementors around, I don't know whether I can..."

"You can," Harry assured her. He radiated confidence for her sake, even if he did not feel it.

Lesath shifted awkwardly and glanced at Harry.

_Oh, right. He thinks I'm his Lord._

"It's your choice, Lesath," he said gently. The others might draw strange conclusions from this particular exchange, but that could be dealt with later. Like, _after_ they had stopped half the world civilization from getting killed.

_Are you mad?_ his Slytherin side hissed at him. _Why should you leave him the choice? His freedom and even life are_ not _worth the death of, say, a million strangers. And if it's going to be hard with four people, it's going to be pretty damn near impossible to do this with three._

_This might well kill all of us,_ Gryffindor pointed out. _The choice to sacrifice his life should be his own._

_Just as long as you're prepared to override his decision after all if he refuses,_ Slytherin said coldly.

"I _want_ to destroy Dementors," Lesath said, with an urgency to his voice. "But I also want... Could I ask... Can I visit my father, after this?"

The old wizard look down on him with a gaze of sympathy.

"He will not recognize you," he pointed out quietly. "But if you want it regardless, I am sure that we can arrange it. In fact, Azkaban will have to be redesigned anyway."

"About that..." Harry began, but Dumbledore shot him a quick, sharp look.

"You cannot make demands for doing what I know perfectly well you will do anyway. Besides, we cannot gather the Wizengamot in the next hour to settle on any kind of binding deal. So shall we have this discussion later?"

"All right, just don't think I'll forget about that. But on behalf of Lesath... Could I ask that his mother's life is spared, should she be caught? I'm not asking that she goes free, I know that she's a bit too dangerous to just let go. But unless _she_ desires otherwise, she should be left alive, free from mental or physical torture, and her son allowed to visit."

Lesath perked up. The old wizard frowned. "That is a rather large request, Mr. Potter. I can see where you're coming from, but I am not sure that Amelia is going to agree to that."

"You are asking Lesath to risk his life," Harry patiently pointed out. "He is going to save thousands of people today, isn't he? The least you can do is grant him this one life in exchange. Besides, Bellatrix might not in fact have been given much choice about leaving her cell, so punishing her for the escape would be unfair."

The old wizard gave him a long, hard look, then glanced at Lesath, who was looking very hopeful all of a sudden. Finally, he nodded slowly.

"I can make no promises. But if that is indeed your wish, Lesath, I shall see what I can do. Now, can we move on to the day's planning?"

* * *

Amelia Bones, apparently, had got some of her Aurors to send Patronuses to known phoenix owners and inform them of the impending disaster. Of course they had all been willing to help (those who understood the message, anyway – she had had little luck communicating with the Swahili witch), and several had immediately come over to the DLME. Those, she had quietly told about the nature of Dementors and Hermione's now-unlocked explanation of how to cast the True Patronus Charm, but none had been able to do it. She had also worked on getting the cooperation of several major governments, and Aurors and Healers in all countries had been prepared for duty, although they had not been told what for.

There were pockets of Dementors in most countries in the world. In some places, like France, they were contained by constant Patronuses and never given any victims to drain of life. Likely, these Dementors would be very, very aggressive when their guardians were no longer able to contain them. In some places, like Azkaban, they were controlled but _used_. Some governments or organizations employed them as weapons against each other; in other places they were deliberately given an area of land with Muggles to use as they wished, with neither Dementors nor humans allowed to leave. These Dementors were the only ones who regularly got to use the Kiss, but they might still turn on their guardians given the opportunity. In yet other places, they were allowed to dwell in dark, filthy places, but kept under control with promises not to interfere with their feeding on passersby, provided they did not use the Kiss. There were also loose Dementors, not under anyone's control, in more abandoned areas.

They had ten minutes, at most, to deal with the most urgent threats. Maybe half an hour more, if they were lucky, before some of the Dementors kept at bay with promises would realize the change in their situation. It was entirely possible that Quirrell had also put motions into place to inform the Dementors, in which case they wouldn't even have that. For many of the smaller pockets of Dementors, their exact location was unknown; those were most likely to be found by following the trail of their victims.

In discussion with Albus Dumbledore, Amelia had made a complete plan of action. Each of the True Patronus casters would be matched with a phoenix owner (except Hermione, who would just be matched with a powerful wizard), and given a Time-Turner whose chain was large enough to transport two people. The phoenix would keep them alive while vanquishing Dementors; the owner could knock them out if they seemed to lose control. Seven special rooms had been arranged in the DMLE where they could come back after each assignment; at the end of an hour, they could go to the next room and loop back in time. If other True Patronus casters could be found, they would go back in time to the second or later rooms and join the four. The door to each room would indicate how many Patronus casters were in there, and Amelia Bones would coordinate all warnings that came in. She would give assignments to whoever was chronologically first, passing them as notes without knowing who the assignment was going to. By keeping the plan unchangeable and limiting information flow to the strictly necessary, the risks of messing with time were contained, at least, even if they were still significant.

"We have twenty-four of you for one hour," Dumbledore reminded them all. "Assuming you survive, and nothing goes wrong. Unfortunately, we cannot count on either, and we _must_ avoid risking a contradiction that would block you from going back in time at all. We are already violating the standard procedures for dealing with time significantly: you will be interacting with your future selves by following your assignments, because if your future self had not handled the more urgent assignments, you would be receiving those instead. Avoid _any_ further interaction with yourself. If you are wounded or otherwise in trouble, you must go to one of the assigned rooms in St. Mungo's, the Great Hall of Hogwarts, or whichever place makes sense to you as long as no younger version of you has been to the same place. If you find that going back to the second room would cause a contradiction, go to the third, and so on. If you cannot go back at all, go to the seventh room, where Amelia will give you instructions to deal with the remaining Dementors. Your assigned helper will take charge, but you must be prepared to help yourself – and them – if things go wrong. If your phoenix owner dies or becomes incapacitated, or if your phoenix needs to be reborn, send for help from me or anyone at Hogwarts; you will be assigned a new assistant."

"You're not coming?" Padma asked, looking meaningfully at Fawkes. The old wizard shook his head.

"I cannot. I have gone back in time the full six hours yesterday, and no twenty-four hours have passed since. I shall do what I can from here, for whichever situations might arise. Do you have any further questions?"

They shook their heads.

The Headmaster waved his hand, and a table filled with all the best breakfast foods appeared. The House Elves, apparently, had been in on the preparations.

"Then, eat. Your day shall be wearying; you will need all your strength."

* * *

It was Monday, April 20th 1992, 07:29am.

Professor McGonagall was overlooking the four House tables at breakfast. Children chattered, ate, and showed each other holiday pictures. Newspapers with the (heavily censored) story of yesterday's trial were passed around. The atmosphere was relaxed. Even most of the staff had no idea of what was about to happen.

She waited, tensely, as the seconds ticked by. These children were her responsibility now; Albus would be busy in the Ministry. He had urged her to do whatever she could to maintain the peace and stop panic from breaking out.

Even expecting it as she was, the voice still managed to take her by surprise. Dry, humorless, and with crystal clarity, the words formed in her head.

**DEMENTORS ARE A PHYSICAL EMBODIMENT OF DEATH. YOU CANNOT FIGHT THEM ANYMORE. YOU CANNOT RUN. TODAY, THEY WILL ATTACK. PREPARE TO DIE.**

Cutlery, cups and photographs fell clattering to the table or the floor. Students gasped. Some were jumping up, others sat rooted to the benches. Even she was trembling. Albus hadn't _quite_ given the details of what the message would be, but of course the less you knew about the future the better.

At the Gryffindor table, Dean Thomas shouted "_Expecto Patronum_." He had been among the few first-year students who had managed to produce a corporeal Patronus before, both with and without a Dementor. But no light sprang forward this time. He stared at his wand in horror, even as all eyes in the Great Hall had turned to look at him.

And then it really started to sink in. There was shouting. People jumped up from their places. Some students even started screaming. Others tried to cast the Patronus Charm, but failed. Some of the Muggleborns fell on their knees and started to pray.

With three loud blasts of her wand, some semblance of order was restored.

"Stay calm, everyone," she ordered crisply, appearing perfectly calm. (She was good at that, and the students needed it now.) "You are in no immediate danger. Remember, there are no Dementors in the British Isles anymore. Miss Granger took care of that." She couldn't say that sensible people were already working on the situation, because there was no way that she could _know_ that without Time-Turners, but... "And I am certain that Dementors in other countries cannot just get to people and attack everyone immediately. They take time to move too, and most are kept away from busy areas. This should give the government plenty of time to do something about it."

"What does it mean?" second-year Marietta yelled. "What was that voice?"

"It seems," she answered, her voice raised over the cries that were starting up again, "that our Defense Professor has some dark motive involving Dementors. He pulled a similar stunt yesterday, but Mr. Potter dealt with the situation." She let that hang in the air for a moment.

Heads swiveled towards the Ravenclaw table. "Where is he?"

"Mr. Potter and Miss Granger have been summoned to a meeting with Madam Bones, to discuss some of yesterday's events before class." It was the story Albus had told her to use, should anyone ask where the two famous children were. "Given Madam Bones's reputation for efficiency, I suspect both of them have already been recruited into a DMLE team dealing with the situation. But do please recall that Miss Granger has a phoenix, and in the extremely unlikely event that a Dementor should come here, she could be on the spot within seconds."

It helped, she guessed, but there was still a lot of muttering and fidgeting, still worried looks everywhere. The children didn't seem very comfortable with these reassurances. And they shouldn't be – even if _they_ were not in any real danger, their families _were_, especially those with relatives abroad, or in the DMLE. In the wider world, disaster was happening.

What they needed, besides promises of protection, was something to do. Something _they_ could do to make it better.

"In fact," she stated clearly, and waited for the worst of the noises to die down again. "There are a lot of omitted details in the news coverage of yesterday's events. One of the things that hasn't been mentioned was Hermione Granger's explanation of how the spell to destroy Dementors is cast. It is harder than the normal Patronus Charm, but perhaps it is still worth trying to learn it." This, too, was her task today. Passing the children the True Patronus Charm was unlikely to help; even Padma had taken a week, Harry had said before Dumbledore took the children off to the Ministry, and he wasn't here now to guide them. The Ministry and Albus would be focusing their efforts on people like Nicolas Flamel, who had a demonstrated affinity for this kind of spell. But there were hundreds of young people in the school, and they would be fools indeed not to give the children a chance to learn. At the very least it would distract them from worrying.

She took a deep breath as the Hall fell completely silent to listen to her.

"The spell is called the True Patronus Charm..."


	20. Chapter 100: Lost Innocence

**CHAPTER 100: LOST INNOCENCE**

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 7:30am, DMLE Dementor-crisis room 1)

**DEMENTORS ARE A PHYSICAL EMBODIMENT OF DEATH. YOU CANNOT FIGHT THEM ANYMORE. YOU CANNOT RUN. TODAY, THEY WILL ATTACK. PREPARE TO DIE.**

The words slammed into Hermione's consciousness. She winced, and then winced again as she realized the implications.

_They have no consciousness of their own,_ Harry had said earlier. _They will act as people expect them to. People _thought_ they could make deals, and that's why it worked._ And she had known that it was true. Attacking the members of the Wizengamot, rather than the two prisoners, had not been in the interest of yesterday's Dementor – but it had done so because everyone expected it to. And in January when the Dementor had spoken to her, she had been afraid for Harry and distrustful of Professor Quirrell, and it had told her exactly what, deep down, she expected to hear. And in speaking those words _she_ had set expectations too, which might have been part of what had given the Dementor its power over Harry afterwards.

With these words, Professor Quirrell – Lord Voldemort – had perfectly set up the expectation that Dementors would attack. And that would make them act. Even far away from wizards, Muggles who had never known about Dementors would fear them. They would expect death to come for them, and therefore, come it would.

Almost on the instant of the message, two pictures with notes attached appeared in the air and drifted down. Alastor grabbed, read, and then thrust one to Barnok, and the other to her.

"Two people to Russia, two to France."

Madam Bones had explained that in the early minutes of the hour, sometimes they would be sent somewhere together, as there were places with too many Dementors for one person to expectedly handle – Albus Dumbledore had suggested that Hermione's destruction of Azkaban had nearly killed her, so chances were that this was approximately the maximum size a single True Patronus-caster could handle with the help of a phoenix. So, they had agreed that Harry and Hermione, who both had experience destroying Dementors, would ideally split up at least the first time, and help Padma and Lesath, who had not.

They wasted no time. Barnok and Sally both looked at the photo and then grabbed Harry and Lesath and disappeared in equal bursts of flame. Hermione took the hand of the strange, pock-marked man, stared briefly at the picture, and then passed it to Tamara before envisioning the place. She touched Xare's claw, and an instant later they were in the building of the picture, with dark-blue walls, and wizards running in terror. Only seconds had passed since the announcement, and the guards of this Dementor-prison had just seen their Patronuses pop. Fear and cold burst around them like a whirlwind.

"Aaah!" Padma screamed, but Hermione wasted no time. Any second now, a Dementor might catch one of the guards, and these were Dementors with reason to be really, _really_ angry. Pushing all her _will to protect_ towards her hand, she raised her wand. "_Expecto Patronum._"

Padma followed the example, failing at first, but on the second try the Patronus _did_ come. She still looked shaky, however.

"Don't let the fear get to you," Hermione urged. "Think of it as... as five seventh-year bullies coming at you with wands out. Sure, the natural inclination is to be afraid, but that wouldn't stop you from trying to hex them."

Padma nodded. "Now how do we do this?" The two Patronuses were blocking the Dementors' progress, but it wouldn't stop the effect from filtering out in other directions.

"Just _want_ to destroy them. Let go of your restraints." And as she spoke, she did so, her Patronus growing. Padma followed suit.

The phoenixes sang, and cried on them. It was a marvelous moment as they felt all Dementors in the dome dissolve one by one, as the French guards stared at them in bafflement. It was like Azkaban had been, but _better_, because they were doing it together.

Alastor Moody nudged her. "Stop." He was wearing dark spectacles. The Dementors must be gone; no need to protect these people further. She willed her Patronus to dim again, and beside her, saw Padma do the same.

"That was wonderful," the other witch sighed.

"I'm glad you like it," Moody grunted. "Because you'll be doing it until you fall over in exhaustion. Let's get back to the Ministry for the next task."

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 7:30am and 20 seconds, the Russian Dementor containment park)

"The fear is not natural!" Harry yelled at Lesath. "It's just your enemy trying to make you afraid! You can destroy them first!"

The boy had fallen over at the first wave of despair – which Harry could hardly blame him for, it had been far worse even than the lower levels of Azkaban – but now a determined look crossed his face, and he tried casting again (Harry kept his Patronus away from Lesath, of course – if he couldn't cast the spell under these conditions, he shouldn't be doing this).

"Those people, Lesath. They are good people. They need us. Help them."

"_Expecto Patronum?_"

It sounded hesitant, and the Patronus came slowly, but it came. And when it was there, it grew.

"Well done, Lesath."

"Thank you, my..." he turned it into a cough. "Harry."

"And now... let go of your barriers. Put _everything_ into the spell. But make sure you can stop when they tell us to."

And so he did, sending the silvery feelings out into a joyful burst of light. He had imagined what this would be like, before. Dreamed so often of going to Azkaban and just letting go and burning away every last Dementor in that dreaded place. He had cursed himself over and over for not taking the chance when the phoenix came to him, when he could have gone and survived. And now he was finally doing it. He wasn't sure whether this place was also used as some kind of human prison or was just there to block Dementors – given the lack of walls he suspected that there had been _some_ kind of deal with these Dementors at least – but it didn't matter. Dementors should not exist. And after today, they wouldn't.

Barnok, the Ethiopian phoenix owner who was accompanying him, shook him, and Harry let go of his wand. The light winked out; Lesath had stopped before him. All around them lay the tattered cloaks of over a hundred Dementors.

"Didn't you hear me?" Barnok asked.

Harry shook his head, slightly embarrassed that Lesath had managed to control himself better than he had. "I was too much into the spell. Sorry."

"Let's go," Sally suggested, and she and Lesath disappeared again.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 7:32am, DMLE Dementor-crisis room 1)

The moment Pamda and Hermione reappeared in the DMLE, a note was already fluttering down. Alastor Moody grabbed it. "Two people, India."

At that moment, Harry and Lesath appeared again, and Padma just saw two new notes appearing before she, Hermione, Alastor and Tamara burned up.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 7:33am, the Indian Dementor-villlage)

They arrived at a dreary-looking village, surrounded by forests. It was mid-afternoon, but despite the lack of clouds it didn't seem sunny, here.

The Auror's crazy blue eye rolled around in its socket even as the brown eye looked at her. "Other side," he ordered, and a new image was pushed into her mind.

She obeyed, and they reappeared at a different part of the village, close to vegetable fields and rows of fruit-bearing trees. Here, the feeling of dread was worse by a tenfold. People were here, Muggles by their looks, but weak, scrawny. Some were shouting, or running back towards the village. Some had fallen over, just holding up their hands to ward off an invisible foe. And from the forest, the sense of fear and despair was increasing, as the Dementors who apparently surrounded this village in large numbers were closing in. Dumbledore had described places where Dementors were deliberately given Muggle victims to drain over time, and this seemed like it might be one of them. Those poor people...

In the distance, she already saw the burst of silver light as Padma had cast her spell. Hermione quickly followed suit. From today on, the people of this village would finally be free.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 7:38am, Detroit, USA)

It was night, here. Nothing indicated that anything was wrong, except a deep, miserable feeling in the air. The note sending Padma and Tamara to this area of Detroit had been blue, indicating that Dementors were known to live around here, but that their exact location was unknown.

She raised her wand and cast the spell again. And yes, _now_ she felt them. There were several, in the weathered buildings around her. She held on while she felt them, and then lowered her wand, nodded to Tamara, and flamed off to receive her next assignment.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 7:41am, a small settlement in Australia)

Hermione had cast the Patronus spell the instant Xare brought her here, but they had arrived too late to stop it, and the few moments before the Patronus appeared had been enough to _see_.

Some man, terrified, batting wildly at the air as a Dementor grabbed him and placed itself over his mouth. In that single instant, _just_ before she could help, the eyes changed from terrified to utterly dead and empty.

She wanted to cry out, but she needed all her concentration to hold on to the Patronus, to protect the _other_ people here, and so she forced herself to protect everyone, and not let herself see those empty eyes again in her imagination until the last Dementor was gone. And then her wand slipped from her fingers as a sob rose in her throat.

This place had been on a purple note: Dementors expected (they probably lived in the forest area around), but likely too far away to need to go for them immediately. And that, it seemed, had been a miscalculation.

The man who had been taken right before her eyes had only been one of the victims. Behind him, she saw others, many others, their empty bodies still standing or walking, but all with those same horrid dead eyes.

A hand was laid on her shoulder and her wand thrust back into her hand. "Hermione... We must go on." The voice was gentler than Alastor Moody had been so far, and this was the first time he called her by her first name.

She nodded, and looked out over the battlefield again. Besides the Dementor-Kissed, there were other people, moving carefully among the victims. Many had died, but more were still alive. And that was what it meant to be a hero too, she realized. It wasn't just doing scary things and going to Azkaban and dying for a greater good. It was also _losing_, losing _badly_, and going on anyway to help those who still lived.

Today was going to be horrible, she knew, as she held Moody's hand and touched Xare's claw to go back to London. But every single life that could be saved was worth fighting for.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 7:46am, the temporary Dementor-crisis control chambers)

Amelia looked at the red note with a frown of worry. _Already?_

She was handling the distribution of assignments over the children in the six rooms. The other countries had agreed to trust her to take the lead, both because the children who could destroy Dementors were all British, and because she could be expected to be fair, as the United Kingdom and Ireland themselves were unlikely to be attacked (all their Dementors had been around Azkaban or in the Ministry). In the first minutes, she had sent them to all the large, controlled pockets whose control suddenly fell away. Those were done. Next were the locations of _expected_ Dementor-pockets: most governments kept tabs on where Dementors hid out, even if they didn't explicitly capture or make deals with them, so Aurors of all countries had been Apparating around to check for the feel of Dementors.

A red note indicated a confirmed attack, but the frightening thing was the location. The note named a district in _Lashio, Burma_, and she was pretty sure that that city had _not_ been on the list of expected places. Which meant that it hadn't been a priority to check out by Aurors and government officials, so this report must have come from someone noticing a Dementor _without_ explicitly looking for it. And she had a pretty good idea of what might have caused them to notice. How long had it taken them to notify the right people in their Ministry?

She looked at the numbers of the six doors surrounding her. Someone had just arrived in the first room, so procedure called for her to send this assignment there. _Poor child._

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 7:47am, Lashio, Burma)

As the light faded away, Harry stared at the carnage. People were running and screaming. A child was sobbing in a corner next to the vegetative empty hull that might have been its mother, once. Near the doors and on the stairs and escalators, the ground was slick with blood and gore, from the people who had been trampled in the mad panicking rush as people tried to flee the invisible horror. And all around, dead blank stares looked into space, from the faces of people who were just standing, or walking at random, or who had fallen over.

One Dementor had done this. Attracted by the shopping excitement of a Monday afternoon, and unrestrained by the threat of Patronus-captivity, the thing had entered a busy mall and gorged itself. It had not worn a cloak, and Muggles could not see Dementors, so the people had never seen the creature that was killing them. But they had _felt_ it, and they had seen the effects.

"People are dying," he said hoarsely. He didn't _know_ anyone here, but the blood and the limbs and the empty eyes shook him on a deep emotional level anyway. "Can you send your phoenix to the wounded?"

"No," the Ethiopian wizard sighed. "You are needed elsewhere. I am notifying the authorities to send a cleanup squad here. Other phoenixes can heal, today. We have different people to save."

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 7:51am, Hogwarts)

Michael was worried.

Harry hadn't come for breakfast, even thought he had _said_ he would. Then there had been that strange voice in his mind, and he had suddenly remembered all that had been said at the trial. He had a strong feeling that Harry was wrapped up in this somehow, but nobody had come to explain, which could either mean that he was wrong or that whatever was going on was too serious to waste time on talking to some Muggles.

And so he had ventured out of the apartment and tried to find his way to the Great Hall. Petunia had not wanted to join, probably because she was far too sensible to risk getting lost in a magical castle, but you didn't become a university professor by avoiding risks. So Michael had gone alone, while Petunia stayed behind to raise the alarm if he would not return.

It wasn't even _that_ hard. Their apartment was close to the Entrance Hall, and even when the staircase he tried to descend ended up in an entirely different place than where it had seemed to go when he started walking down, there was a remarkably helpful portrait to point him back on track. So it was only five minutes later that he stepped through the large open doorway into the Great Hall.

Students were scattered around the hall. A lot of the food on the four tables was left uneaten. There were shouts of "_Expecto Patronum_" everywhere, but no silver light. _Yes,_ he thought. _Something definitely seems wrong._

Professor McGonagall walked towards him with a resolute step.

"Mr. Verres. I am so sorry, but we had quite forgotten about you in all the chaos."

"It's okay," he answered. "But what's going on? And where's my son?"

She told him.

"Ah." Michael considered the situation. His son was off saving the world. He should probably be more worried, but since yesterday the part of his brain in charge of estimating task difficulties was confused.

_Little children grow up indeed._ There didn't seem much point in trying to be a good, supportive father for a small child-going-on-teenager anymore. But perhaps he could still be an acceptable lackey to a young hero.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he asked the Deputy Headmistress. She seemed hesitant, so he quickly added: "I think that if I had magic, I would be able to do that spell. Hermione's explanation resonated a lot better with me than it seemed to do with the other people yesterday."

Now she looked _interested_. "Do you also understand why you are different in that?"

He nodded. "It's a classical error of thinking, the belief that some realistic developments are just too good to be true. But I have a little more grounding in history, and I know where the human mind tends to go wrong."

She stared at him. "Can you teach us?"

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 7:59am, Almere, Netherlands)

The dark-haired goatee-wearing man, who had fallen over next to Lesath, looked a _lot_ like he remembered his father. Father, who was now safe, whom he would get to visit and maybe even take care of.

Muggles were running and screaming, and unmitigated Dementor fear washed around him, but Lesath didn't care. It was unnatural, as Lord Harry Potter had said, and there was nothing to frighten him anymore. They could fix the world, together. This was just a part of it.

He looked at the terrified middle-aged man. _Everything will be alright, dad._

"_Expecto Patronum!_"

Once more, the silver light fled from his wand, spreading over the sports stadium. He could feel it enveloping the people, and touching those shadows of Death spread out over the place. Some of them were close, some of them were distant, but if he opened up enough, he could destroy them all.

The light brightened and brightened; even with his eyes closed it was intense, but he could _feel_ them getting torn apart.

_No more Dementors!_

These monstrous creatures would never soil the earth with their presence again, they would never hurt anyone he cared about again!

He could almost feel the life leaving him, but he didn't care, he was doing what he needed to do...

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 8:00am, Almere, Netherlands)

Sally desperately clung to the fallen body of the boy she was supposed to be protecting.

_Oh no. No no no no no._

She had been looking at the Dementors, not the boy, and so she had only realized what was happening when he fell. And yet _more_ light had flown from his wand even as he was falling unconscious, so she had snatched it out of his hand, but it might already be too late...

Despair washed over her. The last, most distant Dementor was still there.

_Shit!_

In a burst of flame, she, the boy and the phoenix arrived at the entrance of the Dalton Magical Malady Center. She grabbed her mirror, barked to the responding Auror that someone else needed to get to Almere, and drew her wand.

"_Innervate._"

The boy did not stir.

"_Vitalis Revelio_," a Healer who had rushed over said, and Lesath Lestrange was surrounded by a weak pink-red glow. He was an inch from death, but he still lived.

Several incantations later, the Healer had determined that he was not in any real danger, but did need rest. The phoenix tears had stabilized him, but he had almost no life force left, and there was only so much even a phoenix could do. He was transported to one of the beds in a private ward.

"A few hours sleep should do the trick," the Healer promised. "And let your phoenix cry on him every ten minutes or so, that will speed it up. After that, I'd recommend a few days of minimal exertion."

Sally sighed. _One down, three to go._

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 8:05am, Hogwarts)

"So you see," Michael concluded, "you are taught to accept certain 'facts of life'," (he made the airquotes, of course), "Seven centuries ago, people accepted that the only ways to preserve knowledge were to either learn it by heart, or hand-copy texts. A hundred years ago, no one would have believed that it was possible to go through childhood without contracting measles, smallpox and various other diseases. Sixty years ago, it was almost impossible to imagine Europe not torn by war. Fifty years ago, the idea of people leaving the earth was an absurdity. And even now, many people – including wizards, it seems – do not realize that complete information freedom is within reach.

"The world is not fixed. Just look at how much has changed in the last century alone! I don't know what the future will be like, but I expect that the next thousand years will be spectacular. And I don't know about you, but I certainly intend to be around to witness it!

"Thank you!"

He jumped off the Head Table as applause broke out. The Deputy Headmistress beamed at him.

"That was a very inspiring speech, Professor."

"Thank you, Professor. I am not sure it will be enough, though. It takes a while to change your mind about something as fundamental as this. Children _do_ tend to be more open to new ideas, but it will need time. I planted the seeds, but..." he shrugged helplessly. "I don't suppose you have invented time machines, have you?"

She gave him a strange sideways look, and then the sounds of the Great Hall seemed to be muted.

"None that will let you go back for more than a few hours, no," she answered.

"Wait. You _actually_ have time machines?"

"Yes... But please realize knowledge of their existence is restricted – I depend on your secrecy. This is how we're currently averting the worst of today's disaster, by sending your son and his friends back as often as the laws of time permit, to stretch the crucial fifteen minutes as far as they will go. In fact, your son had a Time-Turner from the start of the year. It's how we've been dealing with his sleep disorder."

"You gave _Harry_ a _time machine_ to treat his _sleep disorder_?" He _just_ managed to keep his voice down, but he did not bother trying to keep the horror out. There were just so many flaws with this plan that it was a miracle wizards had not yet destroyed the world, although he wasn't excluding the possibility for the next ten years.

Professor McGonagall's shoulders slumped and something almost like a groan escaped her. "Not again."

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 8:18am, Linfen, China)

The problem with the True Patronus Charm, Harry realized, was that it required a certain mental state that was _rather hard_ to maintain if you were were being confronted with the consequences of your failure, over and over.

Because this _was_ his fault. Of course it was. That was the whole _point_ of heroic responsibility, that _everything_ was your fault. And especially this, because he was pretty sure that the situation had been set up for his sake.

He had known that something like this might be coming. He had refused to cooperate with Quirrell's plans to become hailed as a savior, and so Quirrell had given him no choice. All these people were killed for _him_. And as Harry looked out over what amounted to a battlefield, he had trouble imagining the earth among the stars and mankind traveling from galaxy to galaxy. Whatever he might do with the rest of his life, the people lying dead here would not be part of that future. It was Hermione's explanation, the _will to protect_ the survivors, that drove his Patronus forward now, weak and wavering at first, but enough to stop further destruction.

_This isn't right,_ he thought, as he poured everything he still had into the spell. _Everyone should live forever. These people had no less right to live than the others._

But perhaps he could still save them.

The Patronus brightened to a small sun as he realized the obvious. He had rejected Death as the natural state of affairs, had decided to heal the wound in the world. But that would not be enough. Even if he could heal aging and stop disease, there would still sometimes be accidents; even if he could back everyone up somehow so they could be recovered after death, it would not bring back all those billions of people who had died before.

"Harry Potter, stop!"

He dropped his wand. He couldn't stop the spell, not when the thought was exploding from him like a supernova, but this he could still do. The light disappeared, but the feeling remained.

_There is no reason to accept death. Not while there is magic in the world._

All those people in front of him might yet be saved. The demented still had intact brains, all their memories and personality might still be there somehow. No one had ever figured out a way to reverse the Dementor's Kiss, but no one had known how to destroy Dementors either. Perhaps it was well within the realm of science to bring them back already, and otherwise magic might do it in the future.

And as for the others... There were time machines, weren't there? Sure, they could only go back for six hours, but if time travel was possible in the universe, then why not go further? If they could truly figure out how time worked, why should they not be able to make read-only time machines that could go back six billion years, and allow them to make a backup of every sentient being that ever lived? And if that took another thousand years to accomplish, then so be it; no one would ever _truly_ die in that time...

How had he ever been so unambitious as to desire an end to death only for the people of the present and future?

"Are you okay?" Barnok asked. Harry nodded, and bowed down to pick up his wand.

He had vowed to wipe Dementors from the earth. He had vowed to bring an end to death. And now, as the Ethiopian wizard took his arm and teleported him back to the Ministry, he made a new vow. A world without death meant a world where no one had ever permanently left.

The next few groups of Dementors were a lot easier to vanquish.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 8:20am, Lodz, Poland)

Padma stared around at the result of another bloodbath, her face hard. The Dementor had caused huge traffic accidents in between its other... activities.

_This felt a lot better in the first five minutes,_ she thought, disgruntled. But there were just ten minutes to go, and then she'd get to do those wonderful five minutes over again.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 10:50am, Dalton Magical Malady Center)

The boy, Lesath, opened his eyes.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"Hospital," Sally answered simply. "You lost control in the arena, and I didn't notice in time. I'm sorry."

He sat up, eyes wide. "What time is it?"

"It's ten to eleven. You were unconscious for about three hours," she explained.

"So... I can still go back?"

"The Healers say you need rest..."

"I don't want rest, I want to destroy Dementors! Look, I'm fine!" He pushed the blankets away as if to prove it.

She considered him. It _would_ be in the world's interest if he fought. She didn't want him to die, but if he wanted to risk it, that was _his choice_. She'd learned to respect people's choices, in her twenty-five years with a phoenix.

"Very well," she decided. "We'll go back in ten minutes, when your old self isn't going to be in the DMLE anymore." And she would make very sure to add a note to the presence roster, whenever he was the only one there, that he was only to receive _small_ assignments. She'd almost gotten him killed once, and she wasn't about to repeat the experience.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 7:29am, DMLE Dementor-crisis room 2)

Lesath and Sally were the last of them to appear.

"So, we're all still alive then," Hermione concluded. She sounded weary, but then, they all were. One hour of constantly watching strangers die had dampened their spirits somewhat.

Then the others all winced, presumably because the voice sounded in their heads again. Harry didn't hear it, like he hadn't heard it the first time. Professor Quirrell's magic could not interact with his own, and so it seemed that he had been excluded from receiving the unblockable mental message.

A single photograph with a note fluttered down. Bantok grabbed it and passed it around to the other phoenix owners.

"Northern America," Sally explained. "The camp where they send all the Dementors they catch, along with criminals to execute. I know the place. There's a good thousand of the creatures there, along with over a hundred guards."

With four bursts of flame, they went, to save at least the guards before their captives could strike. They had five to ten glorious minutes to go.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 7:57am, Cairo, Egypt)

"_Innervate_."

Padma looked up into the eyes of the kind middle-aged witch. She was feeling drained. The phoenix was singing and the song was healing, but it just wasn't enough to cure the mental exhaustion, or to make her forget all that she'd seen today. She was tired, and she'd just lost control over her Patronus and had to be knocked out. She didn't want to go on, but she had to; the world needed her, there were still over four hours to go to save as many people as possible. This was Parvati's job, damn it, _she_'d chosen Gryffindor, not Padma, but _she_ couldn't destroy Dementors...

"Are you okay?" the woman asked gently. Padma nodded. She'd have to be.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 8:03am, Sydney, Australia)

Albus Dumbledore burned into existence in a poor part of Sydney, where another group of Dementors had wreaked havoc. The warning had come too late here for the children to avoid the damage. The street was silent, even as the dead lay among the wrecks of cars and the empty bodies of the soulless. The sudden blast of Dementor-induced fear, or perhaps the presence of soulless humans walking onto the streets, had evidently distracted drivers. None were left alive; if anybody had been only wounded, the Dementors had taken care of them, too.

With a sweep of his wand, and a curse of dread power, bolts of yellow light spread out and struck the victims of the Kiss in the heart. They fell without struggle, without even a quivering in the air, as there was nothing left to pass on. In death, they seemed peaceful. It was the only grace he could still give them, that their loved ones would not witness their true fate. Scant comfort thought it was, their bodies would be at peace, at least, even as their souls had been consumed.

Tears did not come easily to the old man anymore. Life had forced him to become hard. But his stomach still wrenched together, and his throat caught, at the terrible, senseless loss. He had seen the consequences of atomic bombs, but this was _worse_, for the people who died in that war had only lost their lives...

_Why do such evil?_ He had never understood, until Harry had unwittingly explained it. To Voldemort, as to Harry, _every_ death was like a Dementor's Kiss. To be accustomed to the idea of thousands of people losing their soul every single day... Indifference towards other people's lives would be a sensible barrier. Albus could understand turning evil if the universe seemed so bleak, and he respected Harry Potter for not giving in to such feelings.

Fawkes cried out and flew ahead, and Albus Dumbledore followed. Further along the Dementors' path, people were still alive to be fought for. And no matter how much he himself was hurting, while there were still people who needed him he would go on. For that, too, was what it meant to accept a phoenix.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 8:07am, Charlerois, Belgium)

The Patronus spell made it a lot harder, Hermione thought, to stomach the loss of thousands of human lives. Every death was a tragedy, but it hit just that much harder when you were constantly reminding yourself of the value of life, and realizing that a victory over death might be in reach within the next hundred years.

She went on anyway, of course. She held on to the thought, even as it hurt her intensely, because she needed to, and because she _did_ believe in it. The lives of the survivors were precious above all. And she would be there to protect them.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 8:21am, Mexico City, Mexico)

The two of them burned back into existence at what looked like a marketplace. Padma didn't even know what continent they were on, just that it was dark, and there were demented people walking around aimlessly. There were few, but if it was night then it seemed likely that many had also been taken in their beds. However it was, she and Tamara had come too late; the Dementors had moved on, but where to?

She felt scared, and was starting to despair. What chance did they really have to stop all this?

"Cast, quickly," Tarama hissed to her, a real tone of urgency to her voice. Then Padma saw it too, not a hundred feet away, flying towards them at speed. Real despair washed over her. They were going to die.

_No,_ she forced herself to think. _You are only Death. Humanity can get over you._

It was getting harder and harder, to really believe in that thought.

"_E-expecto Patronum._"

A great silver humanoid completely failed to appear. Padma just registered that the spell had felt wrong, as the thing flew straight at her, Tamara cursed something in Arabic, grabbed her by the arm, and they both disappeared in a burst of flame just before the Dementor reached them.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 8:22am, Hogwarts)

A burst of flame announced the arrival of a phoenix owner in the Great Hall. Minerva was already on her feet when she recognized the Patil girl, who was being gently pushed down onto Professor Trelawney's chair by an unknown woman. Padma was crying, she saw.

She poured a mug of tea and pushed it into the girl's hand. "Drink," she ordered, even as she rang the little bell to order chocolate.

Padma obeyed, silent tears rolling over her face. "I'm sorry," she burbled in between gulps. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

_What has this poor child been going through?_

"You have no need to be, Miss Patil," she said sternly. Whatever had happened, the girl should not blame herself for failing to live up to the insane pressure put upon her. "You are already doing so much more than anyone has any right to expect of you. How many Dementors have you been exposed to today?"

"Hundreds," the foreign witch who accompanied the girl said, as she stepped back towards the table and put her mirror away. She was not looking that well either, Minerva thought.

"I have warned Madam Bones," the woman told Padma in a heavy accent. "She will send someone else there. Don't _worry_, everything will be fine. But I think you need to rest for a while."

Minerva nodded in agreement and shoved the chocolate pudding which had appeared on the table towards the two. "I quite agree. Now eat a little. I think the both of you should."

She went back to the students in the hall, correcting gestures and stature as they tried to cast the True Patronus Charm. None of them had managed it yet, despite the Muggle man's inspirational lecture. Professor Verres and now Petunia, Lily's sister, were mingling with the students, answering questions and (in the Professor's case) giving encouragement. It might all be futile, but if even one more person learned in the next few hours, it could take a lot of pressure off the others, and would certainly help save lives. Not that she really wanted to put another student through all that.

She glanced back at her star-student Padma Patil, who was quietly picking at her pudding with a tear-stained face. It broke her heart to see the child like this. How many deaths had she witnessed today? And would she ever be the same again? Some hurts could not be healed, even with memory charms...

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 8:30am, a hotel in Aberdeen)

Severus Snape zapped through the various TV networks to watch the news. The Ministry would tell Albus what they believed was going on in the Muggle world, of course, but the Ministry tended to use sources like Arthur Weasley, who didn't understand as much about Muggles as he thought.

Every single channel seemed to have news about the Dementor attacks. There was speculation about the strange message. There were hand-made videos of people trembling and then their eyes glazing over, the sign of a Kiss. Someone had even managed to catch the Patronus and one of the children on tape; Lesath, he thought. There were also amateur videos of witches and wizards killing the soulless.

The commentary was baffled, scared, and very, _very_ angry. On various channels, people were speaking of a war. The Muggles didn't know exactly what was going on, but they knew that they were being wronged.

On one channel, the prime minister of Japan was giving an emergency press address. Did he know about wizardry? Most governments gave updates to the Muggle leadership. The potions master could not understand Japanese, but he got the impression from the responses that the man was telling the people things they did not already know. And if he wouldn't, the current Prime Minister of the UK was sure to speak up soon; he had been on the brink of revealing them after the attack on that school last week, which was not unreasonable given the atrocious way the Ministry of Magic had dealt with it.

The International Statute of Secrecy was at an end. There was no way they could ever Obliviate _everyone_ of the day's events. Even if they could, it would be next to impossible to trace down all the video material.

Grimly, he zapped to the next channel only to see an amateur video of a magical explosion in the London Underground.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 9:01am, Hogwarts)

Padma sipped her second cup of tea guiltily. She should probably go back, even if she _did_ get a sick squirming feeling in her stomach at the thought of fighting again, but Tamara had recommended a full hour rest, and she hadn't really felt strongly enough to argue that. Destroying Dementors had felt good at first, but now she just kept seeing the dead, empty stares of the victims. Would she even be able to do it anymore? She had failed once... did she still believe that they could make the world a wonderful place?

Around her, shouts of _Expecto Patronum_ filled the air. Many students were gathered around the Great Hall, trying the new version of the Patronus spell, to little success. They might well have the will and the mental strength – many of them had been able to cast the normal Patronus spell, after all – but they probably couldn't think in the right way, _they_ didn't have Harry's training.

A burst of silver light blasted into the room. Heads swiveled. Tamara's wand shot into her hand, but the light was already dimming. And there, next to a bright human figure, stood Cedrid Diggory, a broad smile on his face.

Tamara jumped up. "Half an hour to brief him," she whispered to Padma, then strode off towards Cedric. Without a word of explanation, she grabbed his arm and disappeared with the fifth-year boy in another burst of fire.

_Another person to fight,_ Padma registered. If Cedric started in half an hour, he could destroy Dementors for four full hours. Which meant that, even if she gave up now, there would be someone going on in her place.

And that was really the thing, she realized, as she took another sip of tea, and felt a warm feeling spread through her. Whatever happened, someone would carry on. Maybe individual humans could not defeat death – billions had died in the past, far more than the lives which had been lost today – but _humanity_ would go on. She would not have expected Cedric Diggory to manage this spell, but perhaps it made sense. The "Super-Hufflepuff" had the talents of multiple houses, but was a Hufflepuff because he excelled above all at the qualities of his house: dedication and loyalty. If anyone could internalize the power of working together to achieve the seemingly impossible, it would be him.

She felt good, faith returning to her mind and strength to her body. Today, they would wipe Dementors from the face of the earth, if all went well. In the next hundred years, she was sure that they would end war and famine. And one day, they would even defeat Death. How could she have forgotten that it wasn't about her, that she was just a small part of a much bigger whole?

Her wand felt comfortable in her hand. She would be able to cast the spell again, she knew. So when Tamara returned to take her back to the Ministry, she was ready.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 7:30am, DMLE Dementor-crisis room 3)

"Cedric!" Harry yelled enthusiastically. The fifth-year boy just grinned at the other four children.

"Your father got me to understand. He is a great lecturer, you know."

Four notes fluttered down, and the phoenix-owners snatched. Sally's required two people.

"I'll go with Cedric," Harry offered. Sally and Barnok swapped notes, and the five groups went to their assignments again.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 7:52am, Tehran, Iran.)

The light burst forth again from Harry's wand, as he mentally promised the dead and demented that he would bring them back. _No matter what,_ he promised, as he sensed the two Dementors be ripped apart, _I will dedicate my life to finding a solution._

A small part of him wondered, not for the first time, whether he was just willfully deluding himself. But he shut that part of himself up, hard. This was not the time for self-doubt. The people needed him.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 7:29am, DMLE Dementor-crisis room 4)

They were seven! Two Gryffindor boys and a Slytherin girl had joined them. Lesath wasn't there yet, but maybe he would come only on the instant of the announcement.

"Hey, Timothy!" Cedric was greeting. A lot of the enthusiasm had gone out of the boy in the hour since they last saw him.

"Hey Ced," one of the two Gryffindors said tiredly. "The three of us are only here for one turn more. We've been at it for half an hour already, we used all spins of the Time-Turner to make it this far."

"The first minutes are better," Padma reassured them, although she didn't look very excited either.

The voice resounded in their heads, and the assignments appeared.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 8:24am, Untergurgl, Austria)

Padma and Tamara hung together on the tail of the phoenix, trying to trace down the Dementor by going in the direction where the fear was the strongest.

They had got the assignment the instant they returned to the DMLE, so it might have been queued for a minute or so, and the Dementor had already left the place they were sent. They _had_ to find the creature now, for if they went back and let Aurors pinpoint it, they might find it in the 8:29 minute when there was no one in the crisis rooms anymore.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 8:29am, DMLE Dementor-crisis room 5)

"Time," Barnok said. He and Harry popped to crisis room 6, he threw the chain of the Time-Turner over Harry's neck, grabbed his phoenix firmly to transport the creature along, and planted his hand on the first unopened box in the line of boxes placed at the far end of the room. The lid sprung open, revealing a paper saying "_No_".

It was only to be expected, sometimes. If Harry went back, then he might end up getting an assignment that his earlier self had already done.

Barnok just grabbed the paper and burned with Harry to the 7th, and last, room.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 8:29am, DMLE Dementor-crisis room 7)

"Room 6, box 2," Barnok told the waiting Auror. The woman would go back in time when all was over and place the NO-notes into the boxes that should have them. A new paper was already fluttering down to send Harry to his next assignment.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 8:30am, DMLE Dementor-crisis room 7)

Hermione appeared just in time to see Harry disappear. Her heart leaped: Cedric was the only other Patronus-caster she had seen in the sixth room, and she'd been really worried about the others. She'd known that Padma wouldn't make it, because the girl had told her about her one-hour break during a brief lull in the fourth room, but Harry? And Lesath?

She just saw the burst of flame of others arriving – Lesath and Cedric – before she was sent off to Japan again.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 8:51am, DMLE Dementor-crisis room 7)

They were all there, that much Padma had established. All eight of them: Padma, Harry, Hermione, Lesath, Cedric Diggory, Timothy and Patrick Brandon, and the Slytherin girl introduced to her as Rianne Felthorne.

They all looked really, _really_ tired. There was a table piled with food here, and some comfortable sofas if it got too much for a while, but taking a break didn't really feel like an option when you knew that every second you wasted another person might die. All the places where Dementors were _expected_ had been checked in the first forty minutes, so what remained now were the Dementors which had evaded detection before. Usually single Dementors, living in out-of-the-way places. And since it had taken more than an hour to hear about them, most of them had caused _significant_ damage before the children were sent to destroy them, even if they had needed a while to travel to some part of civilization.

She still took some time to eat half a bar of chocolate. More people would survive if she lived to help them than if she let the Dementors overcome her.

* * *

(April 20th 1992, 11:26am, DMLE Dementor-crisis room 7)

They were sitting around the dinner table in a subdued mien. Yes, they had saved billions of lives today. But it didn't feel all that great.

The reports had steadily trickled down, and nothing new had come in in the last half hour. Aurors, Ministry officials and legions of volunteers all over the world had been recruited to search for traces of Dementors or wounded people for the rest of the day.

They didn't know the exact death count yet, but it was in the six or seven figures. Hundreds of thousands of lives lost, in the few hours since breakfast time.

"You killed them?" The voice should have sounded indignant, but it just seemed hollow. None of them had much capacity for emotion left.

"Yes," the old wizard sighed. "We destroyed the empty hulls of their bodies. It is kinder to their friends and relatives, this way. We've probably missed a fair few who had wandered off before we could get to them, but..." he shrugged helplessly.

"You should not have done that. What if they could have been saved still?" Harry asked. Hermione thought he didn't sound like he believed it himself. Just another few ten thousand victims who might have been saved some other way. "And don't tell me no one ever figured out how to do that. No one ever destroyed Dementors before either."

There was a brief silence, at that.

"You yourself have named the Dementors as Death, Harry," the old wizard wearily pointed out. "Would their Kiss have any lesser effect?"

"There is little to lose by _trying_!"

"There is everything to lose. You underestimate the emotional impact on the survivors of not finding the corpse of their beloved ones. Besides this, the ancient texts speak dark words about the Dementor's Kiss. Perhaps these were based on guesswork, perhaps not, but if we assume that these elders knew something we did not, then it seems beyond a doubt that the Kiss is worse than death, for all the pre-Merlin sources agree on that one point. If this is not because they destroy souls, then it might be for one of the other reasons suggested by the scholars who tried to translate the now-lost Atlantean texts on the subject. Would you also disagree with killing the bodies if the people are still _there_, unable to control their bodies, with all their hopes and happiness drained away permanently? What if they lost their ability to think, but not to feel? For _those_, too, are not uncommon explanations."

"Ah," Harry said. "I guess I see the point."

He didn't press further, which was unusual for him. But he too needed some rest, like all of them did.

They ate further in silence.

"I almost gave up," Padma confessed into the silence. "I lost faith that we could do it, and I almost stopped wanting to go back and fight. I don't think I'm really cut out to be a heroine."

Professor Dumbledore gave her shoulder a squeeze. "When you have been exhausted for many hours, when pain and death is not a passing fear but a certainty, then it is harder to be a hero, Padma Patil. And yet you _did_ continue. Do not sell yourself short."

"Is it always like this?" Hermione asked.

"No, not always," the ancient hero said gently. "There are many good days among the bad. When you see the smile of a child. When you know you have saved someone who would otherwise have suffered or died. That's what makes everything worthwhile."

"I will have beds made for you all," Madam Bones offered. "You cannot go back to Hogwarts yet, especially since some of you are still there, learning the True Patronus Charm. If we get new reports, we'll wake one of you up."

"I still have one Time-Turner spin remaining," Harry offered.

Madam Bones considered this. "That might be useful."

"I don't want to sleep right now..." Rianne said thickly. "I don't really want to live through all that again in my nightmares."

"You'll be given potions for four hours of dreamless sleep. After that, we'll send you back to Hogwarts."

The children climbed into the beds they were offered, even as Professor Dumbledore and Madam Bones exchanged looks with each other. The children had stretched themselves beyond belief and deserved some rest. It was probably better not to burden them with the more worrying implications of the day's events for now.

* * *

-o-o-o-o-o-

* * *

**Author's Note: **some answers to questions that might come up, so I won't have to do it in future notes...

_Q_: isn't this a rather enormous risk for Quirrell to take?

_A_: don't forget that, as mentioned in the last chapter, a Time-Turner was involved. Quirrell had access to information from two hours in the future before executing his plan. One might imagine that he, or the person who was sending a message back in time for him, tested certain victory-conditions (such as Harry's and his own survival) before committing to the plan.

_Q_: okay, so Quirrell apparently used a Time-Turner to guarantee success (or at least lack of Harry-killing ;)) before sending his message. What happened to people in places like Azkaban which are warded against Time-loops?

_A_: Azkaban cannot interact with its own future, and therefore nobody inside has heard the message. Unfortunately, everyone who has heard the message has also interacted with Azkaban's future, and as that's definitely going to affect what they'll communicate, they cannot interact with Azkaban either. This means that for instance Amelia Bones has no way of contacting them until 9:28, which is rather inconvenient as the Aurors there are still able to cast a Patronus. The Aurors probably realize that something is wrong, as all their communication with the outside world has stopped, but they cannot find out what without leaving (and if they do, they cannot come back). So yes, some people remain who can cast a normal Patronus, but with the entire rest of the world knowing, it's going to be hard for them to remain ignorant for very long.

(None of this is in the text, because it really isn't all that important; the protagonists don't even think about it, except Amelia and Albus who merely find that it doesn't help them.)

_Q_: the initial plan called for everyone who learned the True Patronus Charm afterwards to drop back in time to 7:30 and go to the second room. Why did Cedric go to the third room on his first time?

_A_: due to a miscommunication about fallback places, Tamara had taken Padma to the Great Hall in her second iteration. Thus, her second instance had already interacted with Cedric, which meant that, to avoid paradox, it was better for him not to directly interact with her past. This is why he went to one room further (which still allowed him the full four iterations his Time-Turner could give him).

_Q_: why are there students of all houses casting a True Patronus Charm?

_A_: because I envision the TPC as a spell that really uses the strengths of all four houses:

* [Slytherin] you need a lot of ambition to fully intend to reshape the world, cast down places like Azkaban and even overcome death

* [Ravenclaw] you need the perception to recognize the flaws in the world and the intellectual honesty to not lie to yourself about that, while also being able to envision a plan for fixing those flaws

* [Gryffindor] you need to have strong will to protect others, and courage to take on all the nasty pieces of darkness in the world, giving your life if necessary towards building a better one

* [Hufflepuff] you need to have the dedication to spend your life making that dream a reality, and the friendship and faith in your peers to know that others will carry on even if you fail

Harry, who invented this form of the spell, has talents spread across all houses. The others might lean more towards two or three in particular, so they focus on a specific aspect of the happy thought.


	21. Chapter 101: Knowing the Enemy

**CHAPTER 101: KNOWING THE ENEMY**

* * *

Tuesday noon. Harry and Hermione were seated in twin chairs in the Headmaster's office.

"Why did you call us here, Professor?" Hermione asked.

"Because I need your advice on how to deal with the consequences of yesterday's events."

She still looked tired, Harry thought. "Why aren't Padma and Lesath here?"

"There is some hope that they might yet be saved from being heroes," Professor Dumbledore replied with a slight smile. "For you two, I'm afraid, it is entirely too late."

Hermione snorted sadly. Harry, however, fixed him with a cold glare. "Have you told all concerned parties that they are to stop murdering the remaining Dementor-victims?"

The old wizard nodded, no longer smiling. "I have passed on your request to leave them for Muggle doctors to examine, and most Ministries have agreed. As the majority of the remaining victims are now in the care of their relatives or hospitals, there is little to be won by forcing the issue regardless. Given the scale of the situation, covering up their state is as impossible as it is futile."

"How many..." Hermione began, trailing off as she didn't seem to dare finish the question.

"Worldwide, a little over a million people have died," the old wizard answered sadly. "And yet more are severely wounded. The brunt of the death toll did not come directly from Dementors, but rather was a result of the panic and chaos they caused. Even Britain was not spared, for, while there were no Dementors here, Voldemort has used the distraction to strike directly. It seems that in most cases, his damage was done with very little effort: emotional spells to cause panic, blasting curses, a few well-placed Confundus Charms... Although there have been some direct attacks with the Killing Curse as well."

"_What?"_

The Headmaster grimaced bitterly. "It appears that he did not want those living in our country to feel secure while their foreign peers were in danger, a motive in which he has succeeded quite thoroughly. Muggles in Britain were hit _harder_ than those elsewhere in the world, at least in the total number of casualties and destroyed property. And yet, even now, the Ministry will not accept that Voldemort has returned. At least they have started taking my admonitions about our Defense Professor seriously. I suppose it doesn't signify much how they choose to name him, as long as they are equally on their guard."

Harry nodded. 'Quirrell' was easier than 'You-Know-Who' anyway.

"Meanwhile," the Headmaster continued. "The representatives of major Muggle governments who were aware of the existence of magic – that is, most of them – have stepped forward and told the world what they know. There is video footage of Dementor attacks and wizards casting spells. This is far beyond what Memory Charms can clean up. The International Statute of Secrecy is at an end."

"_Good_," Harry bit. "Getting rid of that was long overdue, and now maybe we can help the thousands of wounded of yesterday's disaster."

The old wizard just looked at him sadly.

"You are young in the ways of the world, Harry. Do you really believe that life would be better for Muggles if they knew of us?"

"Do you know how many people die of cancer each year?" Harry threw back.

The old wizard sighed. "Too many. Too many to be conscionable, yet also too many for us to help. Do you realize how large the Muggle world is compared to ours? And how many things they would ask of us? Most forms of cancer can be cured by magic, but the operation is far from trivial, and the handful of qualified Healers we could spare would suffice only to serve a fraction of those in need, even assuming their services are not required for other diseases at all."

"It's still better to cure some people than none!"

The old wizard shook his head. "In the short term, perhaps, but you fail to consider the next generation. Magical healing will naturally gravitate towards the richest part of the population. With a magical cure available to those who can pay for it, far less effort will be expended into finding non-magical treatments. In the long run, new development stalls, and almost everyone is worse off than they could have been without our help. Do you think the vaccines whose praise your father sang yesterday could ever have been invented while witches and wizards were still providing healing for the royalty and nobility?"

"So you're saying," Harry summarized angrily, "that you want to let people die when they can easily be saved, just to give the big pharmaceutical corporations a greater incentive to keep developing medicines?

_Actually, he has a point,_ Slytherin pointed out. _Those corporations invest in medical research because they expect a huge pay-off in the end. Whittling away on that might cause all kinds of issues. Can we get an economist in here?  
_

"That sounds so harsh," Hermione said quietly.

"It _is_ harsh," the old wizard agreed. "But this is the lesson history has taught us over and over. You might not have covered it in History of Magic yet, but the International Statute of Secrecy was actually preceded by many smaller, local pacts, in times when Muggles did not travel much. Thus, we have seen the same pattern many times over. Within a hundred years of the secrecy pact – when all those who have seen magic with their own eyes have either gone to their graves or been sworn to secrecy – Muggle society flourishes. With the loss of faith in the supernatural, Muggles start attempting to control the world they live in, the grasp of religion weakens, and equality between the social classes rises. The rich are still privileged, of course, but without wizards backing their claims on lands and people, they are no longer seen as _inherently_ better than the poor. Of course some places have grown faster than others, and even now, there are still many countries left behind, but I also understand that Muggle politicians and organizations are working on that. In two centuries, perhaps, all humans might come to live a reasonable life. Or so it would have been, but for yesterday's events."

He sighed again, piercing Harry with his eyes. "Now do you see what we risk losing? What it might _do_, to the fabric of society, if the magical and non-magical worlds are to merge again? Because the same is known to happen in reverse. There are other tales, although fewer and older, of wizards joining a Muggle community, and invariably poverty grows over the next generations."

"That _has_ to be avoidable," Harry argued. "We have science now, and science doesn't just turn off when you know about magic. I'm sure if we plan this, and organize properly, we can avoid wrecking the Muggle world and maybe also drag the wizarding world into the twentieth century."

The Headmaster shrugged helplessly. "I'm not sure how much opportunity we will have to do that, with tensions as they are. With the casualties we saw yesterday... It will take all our efforts to avoid descending into war. Especially here in Britain, where the people's feelings have been primed by the magical attacks last week, and where no saving grace exists in Muggle perceptions. Abroad, their opinions are mixed. There is understandable anger; Professor Snape has told me that the television shows many videos of the Dementor-attacks themselves, of the aftermaths, and, unfortunately, also of wizards killing the Dementor-victims, which the Muggles naturally do not perceive as the act of kindness it was intended to be. But even as many Muggles are giving in to fear mongering and yelling for retribution, there is also coverage of wizards doing emergency healing, and of you children casting your Patronuses. There are interviews with some of those who experienced the feeling first hand, and they mostly express the belief that you were helping them. Here in Britain, however, we do not have that counter. As all our efforts were focused abroad, the news here is almost exclusively repeating the few images of a witch or wizard doing destructive magic, along with images of the aftermath of Voldemort's attacks: the body counts, fallen buildings and heavily wounded eyewitnesses. Add to that last week's row between the prime minister and the Minister of Magic over the way we dealt with those first two attacks..."

Harry frowned. "How _did_ we deal with those attacks?"

The old wizard looked pained. "After the Inferi attack, an enormous fire was staged to destroy what evidence there was. Most of Easingwold was burned to the ground, officially by a pyromaniac who contracted the 'virus' and went crazy. All corpses were burnt, of course, regardless of the preferences of the families. The Muggle government sent help in the rebuilding when we left, but the damage is vast, and Cornelius has been unwilling to contribute in these costs, saying we have done enough. Nor could he do much to help with the backlash against the Muggle government for the rather implausible story – certainly the prime minister was not pleased with the inevitable political fallout for being forced to speak such transparent lies. In the school, over my protests, the Obliviators staged a gas leak where all the children and teachers died. I barely managed to keep them from being killed; as it is, the children and teachers in question are being kept apart under Ministry custody for the moment, and are planned to be Memory-Charmed and, in the children's case, given up for adoption in the coming years. We can return them to their parents now, but I fear irrevocable damage to our reputation has been done."

"Yes," Harry said, his eyes hard. _Just what kind of unspeakable, evil morons are running our government? _"So there is no time to lose. You must step forward, apologize, return those children, offer what help we can with the wounded people and damaged property, and explain just what the hell is going on. And you'd better do it now!"

"I cannot speak for all of magical Britain," the old wizard sighed. "Much less the entire world, and I would be breaking several international treaties by providing an explanation."

"Ask for forgiveness, not permission," Harry suggested.

"If I do that," the Headmaster said gravely, "my political opponents will perceive it as me making a grab for more power by setting myself up as the spokesman for our world, without even their consent. They will never stand for it, and will deliberately go against what I say. As such, it would be worse than useless: it would be destructive. And thus we bicker rather than stepping forward as I agree we absolutely must. I suppose this is one point where Voldemort was right, little though I like saying it. We suffer from not being united."

"And that is what he wanted us to conclude," Harry nodded. "He wants Britain to be united under a strong leader, and he wants me to be that leader. That's at least a part of why he did it. It's not like I hadn't seen _something_ like this coming."

Hermione, who had been staring open-mouthedly at the two of them, spluttered at this. "Seen this coming? What?"

"You didn't tell her?" Harry asked.

The Headmaster shook his head. "Not that part."

"What part?"

Harry turned to Hermione. "You know he's been mentoring me. I'm pretty sure, from all he said and did, that he wants me to lead the country. He tried to convince me to set up this scenario where You-Know-Who returns and I defeat him, which would make me a great hero in the eyes of the magical world. Don't look at me like that, I told him I didn't want to do it. So that's why he got you sent to Azkaban, to force me to play along so I would be able to manipulate Lucius Malfoy. I still refused, so I've been expecting him to set up another scenario where I _couldn't_ refuse to be the hero. And that seems to be pretty much what happened yesterday."

She frowned, thinking about it. "But then why would he attack in person? He could have known that you were too busy saving people on the other side of the world."

"Why indeed," asked Dumbledore, raising his eyebrows.

"I don't know," Harry confessed. "I wondered at first whether he was just setting himself up as terrifying, but then it doesn't make sense that he's mostly attacking Muggle settlements, which most people in the magical world aren't even going to care about. And yesterday, too, the casualties were almost entirely among Muggles."

"I don't think he ever liked Muggles much," Hermione said timidly.

"No," Harry agreed. "He fears them. He told me about the atomic bomb and how scientists came close to destroying the world. And then there was his Christmas... speech..." He fell silent, as he suddenly understood what Riddle was planning.

"But if he fears them, then why is he antagonizing them?" Dumbledore wondered.

"He _wants_ war," Harry breathed. "He thinks we can win."

The pieces of the puzzle fell into place with crystal clarity. "He's terrified of what Muggles might do, intentional or not. With nuclear weapons, there's too much power in the hands of a few people, people who have never proved themselves responsible. If another world war breaks out, wizards will be annihilated along with everyone else."

"This does not explain why he would push for war," the old wizard pointed out.

"He's pushing for war _in one country_. The Muggle world is not united in itself, it never has been, and as you just said, all the worst aggravation has been here. There's no way a 'war of extermination' initiated by the British government, or even the European Union, would actually work: we could hide out, or flee to other countries. What's more, they couldn't really use their worst weapons against us, because magical people tend to live among Muggles – for example, the Ministry of Magic is located in London, they're not exactly going to throw a bomb on it. No, that's never what he was afraid of. What he fears is far more realistic: Muggle countries fighting each other. Several nations have been at the brink of war for decades. The cold war has pretty much ended, but all those weapons are still out there, it might be as simple as one crazy person getting elected into the wrong position to start it all off again!"

The others were staring at him, but he ignored it, and went on thinking aloud. "He's been planning this for over twenty years. Set up an evil dark lord, create a hero to fight him, have everyone swear loyalty to this hero, cause the Muggles to declare war, and then use the hero to win that war. It would really be the war to end all wars, because it would end with an eternal magical dictatorship – perhaps even a benevolent dictatorship, Muggles wouldn't need to be oppressed _very_ much to stop them from destroying the earth; you'd just want to destroy all weapons of mass destruction and keep some oversight over military activities and potentially destructive research. Monroe was meant to be the leader whose 'light mark' everyone would take. But it didn't work out, he wasn't _enough_ of a storybook hero, so people preferred to stand back over actively following him. And he couldn't make the Dark Lord _worse_, because if Monroe was seen to be the weaker party even briefly, he would lose favor in the eyes of the world. So he retired Monroe, and made the Dark Lord the most terrible dark wizard to have ever lived. He didn't make him win, but _barely_, so that when he set up a new hero who defeated this dark lord without any help, it would seem to everyone like a great miracle."

"You?" Hermione whispered.

"Me," Harry nodded. "I don't know whether there actually was a prophecy that he conveniently used, or whether he set that up too – he might have figured out how to manipulate the Department of Mysteries, or otherwise he deliberately had me 'defeat' him, leaving only a remnant of himself behind. But either way, he created a new hero, one who would defeat the greatest dark wizard who ever lived at _one years old_, who would become an icon before he ever did anything of his own, and who would then go on to do even greater things. Such a hero could gain the loyalty of Gryffindor and Slytherin alike, and might be able to unite the country if Muggles should become a real threat. He intended to be able to manipulate me, perhaps through possessing me as you hinted, Professor, or otherwise more directly, as he has done by teaching me. It is no coincidence that he came to Hogwarts this year."

"This all sounds really dark and scary," Hermione piped up, after the silence had stretched a bit, "but this is Professor Quirrell we're talking about, right? He knows that you were raised by Muggles. He probably knew that your mother was Muggleborn, too, and there was always a pretty high chance that her family would be the ones to adopt you. Why would he think you'd be willing to fight a war against Muggles?"

That was a good point, but Harry immediately realized the answer. He looked at Professor Dumbledore. "You told me once that it was your fault that I had abusive parents. Did you _actually_ plan for that to be the case?"

The Headmaster shifted uncomfortably. "I knew already that you had a loving family at the time, or I would not have brought it up. But when I sent you to live with your aunt, I did not know for certain what the outcome would be. I hadn't seen Petunia in many years, and Lily rarely spoke of her sister. The simple truth was that I feared for your life and your future. The remaining Death Eaters might well seek revenge on you for the fall of their leader. What is more, powerful, wealthy pureblood families were already filing for your adoption, either to use your fame for their own ends, or for yet darker purposes. The claim of a direct family member, even a Squib, would supersede theirs, especially because it would offer the possibility for blood wards, which provide the best possible protection from harm. As Lord Voldemort had killed most of those family members in the months leading up to your parents' death, that left me with only one option."

_Ah. So that's why mum's parents are dead, too._

"So you assigned me to a sister who you knew to have always been unhappy, and who had been envious and hateful of Lily," he summarized flatly. "A sister who had every reason to hate magic because it had alienated her sister from her, and had been the cause of her parents' death very recently. You thought she would mistreat me."

The old wizard looked grave. "I would not have allowed you to come to harm, for certain – the wards would stop any significant physical damage, and an old friend of mine, Mrs. Figg, agreed to move into the neighborhood to keep an additional eye on your well-being and your development. I confess that I considered it entirely possible that she would not love you, at least not from the start. I had planned to bribe or force her to take you, should it be necessary, but she did not at all protest at the request. I _am_ really glad for how it turned out, Harry."

_And Professor Snape said that he never knew that Lily had made peace with her sister. If _he_ was Voldemort's main source about the Potters, then Voldemort would not have known either._

"Would you really have forced her?" Harry asked. It probably wasn't important, in the large scheme of things, but he couldn't just let this go. "I mean, that would not only be wildly immoral towards her, but would also have put me in a not exactly nurturing environment. Don't you have any idea what neglect and resentment in guardians can do to a child, even if they never _physically_ hurt him?"

The Headmaster shook his head. "You might have had a rough childhood, but it would have been preferable over being given to the Jugsons, Notts, or even the Crouch or Fudge families. I could never have adopted you myself, being old and unmarried, and the Ministry does give preference to the older families in such matters."

"I guess I can sort of see why you'd do that," Harry acknowledged. He would probably have been more upset if Mum and Dad had not, in actual fact, been wonderful parents. As it was, he could imagine why Dumbledore would have preferred him being neglected over being raised like Draco, or having a convenient childhood 'accident'. "But let's look at this from the point of view of an outsider, who didn't know Mum, only the relationship she and Lily _used_ to have. She had every reason in the world to hate and fear magic. If that hadn't been resolved, being forced to take a young wizard in the house would have been very stressful for her, and it would be entirely reasonable if she couldn't bring herself to care for, or even bare to look at me. And for what you just said, You-Know-Who killed every near relative _except_ for Mum. That has to have been deliberate. He knew that, given the choice between having me adopted by blood purists or mistreated, you'd choose the latter."

Dumbledore's eyes widened as Harry spoke, his face showing shock.

"Which tells us something about his original plan," Harry concluded. "I was meant to come to hate Muggles, and more. Even if nothing _truly_ bad happened, he expected that I would be neglected, mistrusted, never been cared for, nor had any role models to show me normal human relations. I haven't really studied developmental psychology very well, but I'm pretty sure that that could have messed me up in all _kinds_ of ways. Hating Muggles is just the first, I might have ended up hating other people altogether. Or being so morally and emotionally deprived that I ended up... well, like him, I guess, never caring for anyone at all."

The Headmaster trembled a little. "Oh Merlin, what have I done? I didn't see, I didn't realize –"

Hermione shot Harry a look and carefully touched the old, gnarled hand.

"I didn't end up like that, though," Harry continued, following her cue to reassure the old man, although he wasn't entirely sure whether it was deserved. Something Quirrell had said came back to him. _Heroes and villains are just different sides of the same coin._ Growing up neglected and isolated was the best environment to nurture a hero, but it would also create severely broken people, maybe even psychopaths. Dumbledore might have understood the former, but he had missed the latter. "This was just what You-Know-Who _expected_, but in the end, everything actually turned out in the best possible way. I have wonderful parents, who willingly chose they have me, and they taught me plenty of empathy and respect for what Muggles have achieved. So, while in the future I think you really should discuss this sort of decision with someone like Professor McGonagall, there was no harm done."

The old man shook his head, looking pained. Finally, he recovered some of his composure.

"This time, perhaps, all turned out for the best, but there was another time, another child. I did not send him there, but I failed to recognize the signs..." He took a deep breath. "More than fifty years ago, I went to bring young Tom Riddle his Hogwarts acceptance letter. He lived in a Muggle orphanage. From what little I could gather at the time, it was a harsh place to grow up – not abusive, but quite devoid of love. There were simply too few staff members to bond with the children. He was also isolated from the other children, since they considered him, in their words, a 'freak'. He, I thought, deemed himself to be above them, but perhaps that was merely a response to their treatment of him." He sighed deeply. "It never occurred to me that he might simply never have learned to care for people. If it had, perhaps I would have acted differently. It might not have been too late, then, to find help for him. But instead, I merely kept his secrets, and never revealed to anyone what I learned of his home environment."

"Tom Riddle?" Harry asked, suspicion starting to dawn.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle," Dumbledore nodded. "He who would later become Lord Voldemort."

Hermione looked startled. "That name wasn't in any of the books!"

"It is not common knowledge," the old wizard replied. "Voldemort would not want it generally known that he is a half-blood – witch mother, Muggle father – a fact which, I believe, may be part of the reason why he distanced himself from his given name. I suspected the connection when I learned that Voldemort was a Parselmouth, a very rare talent which Tom had let slip he possessed the first time we met, before he knew just how rare it was. I managed to confirm the connection when Tom Riddle returned to Hogwarts to ask me for a teaching position, using a combination of blood magic and the Hogwarts wards. I did not dare reveal his identity in public, however,, as I did not have enough proof to convince any but those who would believe my word. It _might_ damage Voldemort if I did so, but only a little; it certainly would strengthen the cultural prejudice against half-bloods and by extension Muggleborns."

Harry considered this. "Okay, I'll assume it accurate for now." _Well. Plausible at least._ "I'm not sure how important this could be, but I would like a full briefing on everything you know about this Tom Riddle at some point in the near future. For what you tell me, it certainly sounds like he intended for me to grow up exactly like he did, though. He must have noticed that this part of the plan hadn't worked out when he got to know me, but he works with what he has. So he's been training me, and playing on my affections to push me in the desired direction instead. Perhaps the original plan was to turn me into a small version of himself, backed by all sides of the political spectrum, leading the wizarding world through the war and then setting up a magical dictatorship because I would consider it the most sensible solution. With that not working out, the idea might be that I will have to win the war quickly in order to minimize casualties."

"This sounds like a very risky plot," Dumbledore said with a frown. "There are many assumptions, many things which could go wrong. I would not expect the Ministry to lightly give you power, for instance. You are only eleven, after all."

"I don't pretend to have the full picture here," Harry argued. "Just the rough outline. He probably has plans for all kinds of eventualities, and he'll be working in the background to steer the war into the direction he wants. Perhaps the plot spans several years, and he's trained the Hogwarts children in Battle Magic to prepare for some final battle once the magical government gets desperate enough to pass military command to me. Or he's setting magical Britain up to _lose_, which will set the tone for a future war in other countries. That future war will probably happen anyway, come to think of it, even if we win here. Basically, I don't know exactly what he's doing, not the details. I really have to go and think about this properly for a few hours to see whether I can figure it out. I'm just fairly sure that it involves starting a war and having me win it one way or another, and that the end point is meant to be a global magical dictatorship, where Muggle scientists are no longer a threat – quite possibly because there is a lasting peace that means there won't be a need for further wars."

"The endpoint, at least, sounds remarkably familiar," the old wizard said with a weak smile. "If what you say is true, then he is not so different from Grindelwald after all, or from those dark lords seeking to subjugate Muggles before him."

"Except that he does not necessarily seek to rule himself," Harry pointed out. "And his motivation is born from fear rather than contempt. He wants to keep Muggles from dragging the magical world along in their fall as they destroy the planet. For that purpose, he needs the control over great destructive powers – like nuclear weapons – to be out of the hands of people who have never learned to be responsible with that sort of thing. Which, given their nature, probably means destroying them all, along with the facilities where they're made."

"So he intends for a wizard to rule the Muggle world, for their own good and ours," Dumbledore nodded. "He is _not_ killing wantonly, he does not seek the destruction of all Muggles or even those politically opposed, he merely wishes for a magical dictatorship underneath a benevolent and powerful ruler. There was a time when I would have agreed with such a goal."

Hermione gasped in shock. The old man smiled at her. "Don't worry. I got wiser. And I daresay Harry is already much better than that." He pierced Harry with his deep blue eyes. "You do seem to understand him very well indeed, Harry Potter. Much like I understood Grindelwald, once."

Harry nodded. "Yes. You thought he was my dark mirror, didn't you?"

"And is he?"

"I guess I see the point." Harry _had_ thought about that a few times in the last week. "We think alike in many ways. Except... he's just _empty_. He doesn't care about other people at all. Like, he doesn't hurt people for fun, but if it helps him in some way, he doesn't mind what pain he causes either. And if he sees people doing stupid things, he just gets cynical about it, rather than trying to fix them. Or he suggests 'fixing' them with the Kiling Curse."

"Whereas your Patronus spell is, as I gather it, almost its exact opposite," the old wizard suggested.

"Yes," Harry agreed. "I guess in the end, that's what makes the crucial difference between us. I put great value on other people's lives. He cares only about his own."

"The difference, in short, is your capacity for love?"

Harry paused. He had the feeling the Headmaster had suggested something like this months ago, and that Harry hadn't taken him very seriously at the time.

"Well played, Professor. Well played."

The Headmaster just smiled and winked.

"So what do we do about this?" Hermione asked. (Harry noticed that she said _we_, which was good, even if she still seemed to want to rely on Dumbledore.) "It sounds like we can't win whatever we do."

"Little though I like suggesting it after what Harry just said," the old wizard said heavily. "I think we'll have to figure out how to kill Voldemort. Even if there may be alternative options now that we have some idea of what he's planning, we would want to have the possibility if the opportunity should arise."

Hermione paled. Harry just turned to business.

"For that, you'll have to tell us a bit more about how he's immortal in the first place. So far, you haven't exactly been forthcoming with information. From what little you told me, I _still_ have hardly any idea what is going on."

The Headmaster shifted uncomfortably. "As I have told you before, my knowledge on that subject is woefully limited –"

"Maybe," Harry growled. "But even that little bit, you still haven't told me completely. For example, you mentioned some Myrtle person dying for his immortality before. That's something you didn't mention when we talked about this the last time."

Dumbledore frowned, seeming to fight with himself.

"You don't want to say," Hermione said quietly. "Is it that bad?"

The old wizard looked grave. "Yes, Hermione, it is the darkest kind of magic. But," he turned to Harry, "I confess that the main source for my reluctance is concern over your response, Harry. I know that you seek immortal life, for yourself and others, but I would not have you try this road to immortality, for that way darkness lies. You might be able to talk yourself into it, if you were to find a willing victim perhaps. You do not believe in the existence of souls, so you might fool yourself into thinking that this ritual holds no risks for you. But I am certain that it will destroy the goodness in your heart, and I fear to the utmost the consequences for the world if you go down this path."

"I promise you, Professor, I will use my best moral judgment. No, let's make that stronger. If _Hermione_ thinks it's a bad idea for me to use whatever you're going to tell me, I won't do it, and I'm not going to do any irreversible magics without being entirely sure what effect they will have. Can you be okay with that?"

"Caw?"

Hermione fondled Xare as Professor Dumbledore gazed at her intently. Then, he reluctantly nodded.

"Very well, then. I shall tell you two all that I know, although I must ask that what we discuss today does not leave this room." He paused, waiting until they had both nodded in agreement, before resuming. "I have spoken to you before of a dark and terrible ritual, by which a fragment of the soul is torn off and chained to a worldly device. Such a device is called a _horcrux_. I do not know, precisely, of the arts involved in the creation of this foul thing, but I am almost certain that part of the process requires a murder. While the horcrux persists, that part of the soul will prevent the part that resides in your body from passing on. Even if the body is killed, the soul is tied to this realm by the part in the horcrux, although it is greatly weakened and will take years before regaining the strength to take possession of a host body or, with sufficient help, even to acquire a new body of its own. Voldemort has dropped hints to his servants about his immortality before, and I am quite certain that he killed Abigail Myrtle when he was still in school. As no apparent motive existed for that murder, I suspect he made a horcrux even then."

"Just because you don't know of a motive doesn't mean there wasn't one," Harry pointed out. "And if you actually knew for certain that a schoolboy had killed a fellow student, I imagine he would be in Azkaban, so could you please just give us the raw facts, and then maybe inferences afterwards?"

"Most of what I know is based on inference and guesswork, I'm afraid," the old wizard replied. "What little I know of horcruxes comes from a book I remember reading briefly during my student years before putting it away in disgust, and otherwise a collection of suggestive book passages, half-disintegrated scrolls and ancient tales passed on from parent to child. To become a powerful wizard, you have to learn to read between the lines, and this is what I have done for want of a better option. But, I shall try to do as you ask."

"So... Myrtle?" Harry pressed.

"She herself knew of no motive," Dumbledore said. "Her ghost told me as much. It took me a while to coax her into speaking of her death, however – at first she was quite preoccupied with haunting the girl who had bullied her in school. Her testimony suggested that her killer was a boy, speaking in hisses, although she never saw his face. Given how exceedingly rare the Parseltongue ability is, I am certain that the boy in question was Tom Riddle. Yet, she didn't even know him besides being aware of him as a Prefect in a different House. I suspect that, due to her isolation, she was merely a convenient target..." He trailed off, and looked grave. "Unfortunately, a ghost's testimony in court is not accepted, as ghosts can neither take Veritaserum nor be punished for lying in court, so Riddle was never even questioned over her death. At the time, I do believe he had already learned Occlumency, however, so it would not have been enough regardless."

"I see," Harry said. It wasn't very convincing evidence, but it was _plausible_ that Riddle had used a random student as a victim in some sacrificial ritual. It didn't follow that this was an immortality ritual, but it was still worth filing away for future reference.

"What does a horcrux look like?" Hermione asked in the silence.

"I do not know of any distinguishing features. The object to be turned into a horcrux could be anything, although it might need to be something of emotional value to the owner. I suspect, given that Voldemort put a part of his soul on it, it will be something grand, but I can guess no more than that. There _are_ certain spells to recognize a horcrux when it is nearby, but unfortunately I have no clue what they are."

Harry frowned. "And the trick to undoing the caster's immortality is to destroy the horcrux?

"Indeed," the old wizard nodded. "All my sources agree on that: when the device is destroyed, the caster is once again truly mortal. To destroy them is not easy, however; neither mundane methods nor any but the most powerful of magics will be able to penetrate a horcrux's protections. I once heard a tale of a dark wizard whose possessions were all burned after his death, yet a single painting remained untouched by the flames, a painting that exhibited a remarkable intelligence and personality. Neither swords, cutting curses, dedicated charms to remove the magic from paintings or anything else worked, until the painting was finally destroyed using fiendfyre. That, and basilisk venom, are the only two feasible ways of destruction I learned of."

Harry nodded. "But to destroy this horcrux, I presume, we need to find it. Does he need to keep it close to himself?"

The old wizard shook his head. "The only purpose of a horcrux is to bind a soul to this realm; I do not believe that there is any reason its creator would ever need to come back to it."

"Great. So it could be anywhere."

The old wizard smiled sadly. "Yes. I was hoping you might have some ideas where he could have hidden it, as you are so familiar with the way he thinks."

Harry frowned, thinking. Where_ would I hide something I wouldn't want anyone to find?_

Something inside him shriveled up and died.

"I do. Sorry, there is _no way_ you're ever going to find it."

"Why?"

"He actually asked me this before, where I would hide something, and the answer amused him for some reason. I don't know exactly what I came up with, but I'm pretty sure dropping it at the bottom of a non-descript piece of ocean, getting it at a random spot in the earth's core and sending it out into space were some of them. If _I_ can think of that, then so did he. In fact..." He trailed off as another realization hit him.

_Crap._

"Harry, what's wrong?" Hermione asked. "You look very white all of a sudden."

"Have you ever heard of the Pioneer Probes?"

* * *

"So you're telling me," Dumbledore summarized, looking _very_ tired now, "that Voldemort's horcrux is probably on a trajectory out of the Solar System."

"Yes." Harry shrugged helplessly. "I think we could probably calculate its exact location, but... well, you may want to see how much wizards can help the space program."

"But when did that happen? They launched a probe to outer space _before_ the moon landing?"

"No." Harry shook his head. "Both pioneer probes were launched in the seventies."

"But that doesn't match up! He killed Myrtle far earlier that that, and the books on horcruxes were already missing in 1960."

Harry considered. "Are we sure that there's only one?"

...

...

The Headmaster was staring at him in horrified silence. Hermione looked from one to the other as though she, too, had no idea what was going to happen next.

"If it was _me_," Harry continued, "I wouldn't trust my immortality to a single object that could be damaged or found or _whatever_. No matter how many precautions you put on your phylactery, it's never enough. But if this is the kind that you can do more than once – and from your expression I gather that you don't have any knowledge indicating that it is _not_ possible – then that seems like a pretty good idea to do, really. If you don't mind killing people, that is," he added as an afterthought.

The ancient wizard buried his face in his hands. "We are all doomed."

"Not necessarily. There might be other options than killing him, right?" Harry reminded him. "I don't _know_ whether he has a large number of horcruxes in impossible locations. I do know that if he has found a road to immortality, that he will have done everything in his considerable power to ensure that it doesn't get destroyed. So I think we can pretty much give up on this line of thinking, and should consider something else. I guess in the worst case, we could even give him what he wants, because his ulterior goal doesn't seem to be _that_ dark."

"Would you really do that?" Hermione whispered. "After yesterday?"

Harry closed his eyes to shut out the memories. "No. I guess I'd rather not do it. But it's an option to consider."

The Headmaster smiled wryly. "I see you have at last learned of the Phoenix's Price."

Harry looked down at his feet. If continuing to fight would cost another few million innocent lives, should he, really? Was a magical dictatorship with himself at the helm so bad as to make such sacrifices worth it?

"_He_ taught you to lose," Hermione said quietly into the silence. "You're thinking of losing now, aren't you? Of giving up in the face of a superior foe?"

Harry looked up. She was right.

"Not yet," he said grimly. "We'll see how it plays out. His goals are _somewhat_ aligned with mine, but I don't like his methods, and I have no intention of conquering the Muggle world. Let's not stop thinking after one setback. Perhaps we cannot _kill_ him, but can we _imprison_ him? If he is possessing a body, can we bind him to it?"

The Headmaster shook his head. "Everything I know of possession says you cannot. If he creates another body for himself, perhaps that would work, if he had no way of committing suicide."

"Okay. You say the horcrux is about souls. Now, I don't believe in souls, and as far as I can tell, neither does Quirrell. Are there other explanations about what it does?"

The Headmaster shrugged helplessly. "If there are, I do not know of them. But that is saying very little, since, as you know, my knowledge of horcruxes is limited."

"Right, so let's focus on the world 'soul' for now. Do we know any other magic that is said to have something to do with souls? Can you bind or... destroy..."

They stared at each other in sudden understanding.

"Well," the old wizard broke the silence eventually. "I suppose Dementors _did_ have some purpose after all. It's a shame you just destroyed all of them."

"Which was one of his plans, of course," Harry grumbled. He began to understand what Moody had meant when he said you always ended up doing or thinking exactly what he wanted you to do or think. "I don't suppose we know where Dementors originally came from? Can we make new ones?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "They breed, when they are given enough souls. But where they originally came from, no one knows."

"All right, if we _do_ find another Dementor, it may be an idea to keep it rather than straight-out destroy it, but otherwise, let's shelve that idea for now. Do we know of other ways to bind a soul? Or other magics, creatures or devices that somehow have 'soul' or 'spirit' in their description?"

"Possession, mainly, which is done by briefly moving your soul and magic out of your body and into someone else's – although there is some academical disagreement on that point – but this does not seem useful to our situation. Exorcism rituals cast out the possessing soul, which is contrary to what you are looking for. Otherwise, there are the resurrection stone and ghosts, but these only provide a way to interact with specific people who have already died. Killing, in particular the Killing Curse, is said to crack the soul, but I believe that this merely helps in creating more horcruxes."

"Hrmz. Well, it's worth thinking about, and I'll keep reading about possession, frustrating though all the contradictions are. I'll try to come up with other formulations that might be relevant." His stomach rumbled audibly.

"Yes," the Headmaster nodded. "But come to my office whenever you have any new ideas you wish to discuss. You are always welcome."

* * *

As they trudged back towards the Great Hall together (Hermione didn't want to use Xare for _everything_), Hermione looked a little bit subdued.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked. "I know it probably takes some getting used to."

"I'm not sure there was much point in me being there at all," she muttered. "All I could do was sit and listen and be completely horrified by everything the two of you were discussing."

"Well, we've been having several of these sessions. Dumbledore is used to fighting a war, so he can be very hard when he needs to be, and, well, I'm creative, you know me. But note that just because I _think_ of stuff doesn't mean I'm going to _do_ it. It's all about getting into a habit of coming up with good ideas, and then you can disregard the more immoral and impractical ones later. If I disregarded ideas because my brain shut off when going into that direction, then I'd miss a lot of good and perfectly ethical possibilities, _and_ I'd be less good at figuring out what the bad guys want to do. You shouldn't blame yourself for not thinking like that, you're just not that kind of person. And you _did_ bring up some pretty good points, actually."

She nodded, and walked on in silence.

"What's this with you being possessed?" she asked eventually. "You said something about that earlier, but I didn't really know what you were talking about."

"Oh, that. Well, Professor Dumbledore thinks my dark side is actually a possession by You-Know-Who gone wrong. Apparently dark wizards can take over other people's bodies, but _normally_ that requires them to 'leave their own' and be fully concentrated on dominating you. But he found a story about this child who got dominated by a dark wizard who was also active at the same time. So he thinks that You-Know-Who tried to possess me by only putting a _part_ of himself in me, and that he then accidentally killed himself, was kept alive by the horcrux, and the part of him that was possessing me sort of grew into me and became a separate part, but with no real control unless I get very angry."

She frowned. "A part of him? Like, a part of his soul?"

He stood stock still. That hypothesis made an awful lot of sense. Of course Riddle had multiple horcruxes. He didn't give a damn about human sacrifice. He had so many that he could afford to take some risks with one of them, and turn a vulnerable object like a human into a horcrux as well. A horcrux could be something as simple as a full backup of your mind at the time of making it; Harry's dark side had no will of its own, but it _did_ seem to have intelligence.

"Should we go back to Dumbledore?" Hermione asked in a high voice.

Harry shook his head, and started walking again. "Not now. I want to think about it first. If he realizes that I'm a horcrux he might just decide that I need destroying."

"He wouldn't do that!"

Harry sighed wearily and pulled her along. "What do you know, Hermione, and how do you think you know it?"


	22. Chapter 102: The Muggle War, Pt 1

**CHAPTER 102: THE MUGGLE WAR, PT 1**

* * *

Wednesday morning, in Westminster Palace. Thomas Johnson sat in the packed audience benches. Yesterday evening, the Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge had visited the Prime Minister, and in a rare show of consideration offered to address the House of Commons. Thomas had barely managed to secure a seat, but as a high-ranking official in the Ministry of Defense, he had some leverage.

Perhaps it was unfair. He already knew all about magic, and had even been reading the Daily Prophet every evening for the last three years. Being married to a witch had many perks, even if it meant lying to his friends and family because of the silence vows. But Sarissa had told him that the Minister of Magic was a blustering fool, a puppet controlled by the more powerful players on the political field, and he wanted to see this for himself. The live broadcast might not work for long, as too much magic disturbed electronic devices, a problem which he had encountered far too often in their household. (Fortunately, Sarissa didn't have much need for magic at home, her day job researching spells in the _Nimbus_ company giving her an outlet for her witchy urges.)

Minister Fudge was supposed to deliver a speech at ten in the morning.

It was now 10:02.

People were shifting uncomfortably, the Prime Minister looking livid. The supposed Minister of Magic was nowhere to be seen near the palace, and if the man didn't show up, it would reflect badly on _him_. Even if he did, the lateness was a sure sign of disrespect towards the governmental body.

Finally, at six minutes past ten, a man suddenly appeared in the center of the room with a loud *pop*. All conversation stopped amidst gasps.

The wizard drew himself up with a pompous look on his face. A portly man wearing a pinstriped suit and a lime green bowler hat, he looked positively ridiculous. The man cast a surprised look around the room.

"Ah, good morning, Minister Fudge," the Prime Minister spoke.

The Minister of Magic nodded briefly. "What's with all these people, Prime Minister? I expected to speak just with you and your ministers."

The Prime Minister's face briefly flashed in consternation, but then quickly smoothed itself again. "These are the elected representatives of the lower House of parliament, sir." He wisely forgot to mention the spectators on the Strangers' Gallery, Thomas thought. Not to mention the cameras.

"Yes, well," the wizard grumbled. "I'm already breaking the Statute of Secrecy as it is, just by being here. It needn't get any worse."

"I assure you, sir, all the people in this room are aware of magic. It's been rather hard to miss, these past few days." His voice held just a hint of reproach.

"Oh, I suppose." The man flicked his hand dismissively before turning to face the Assembly, and cleared his throat.

"I've been asked to inform you of the current situation. Well then. The attacks on Monday and earlier this month were done by a dark wizard, Quirius Quirrell or something like that. Don't ask me why, he probably just has it in for Muggles. You may rest assured that we are taking the matter very seriously, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is doing all in its power to apprehend the man." After a pause he added, in tones as though he were bestowing a great favor upon his listeners: "I can also offer you a thousand doses of bone, muscle and tissue regeneration potion to help with the aftermath of Monday's... of Monday."

There was a brief silence, then the Minister of Public Health cleared his throat. "There are over five thousand heavily wounded, sir. Perhaps a little more ...?"

The wizard started, and stared at the man who had spoken. "This is an extremely generous offer! A thousand such potions would take a Master Potioneer over half a year to make, you know."

Thomas groaned silently. _Just point out that most of those people don't need limb regrowth, you fool._ A thousand potions seemed to be about the right figure to help the people who had third-degree burns in public places, needed amputations, or had ruptured internal organs beyond repair. The offer must have been designed to cure those people who were beyond the abilities of Muggle medicine to help. Unfortunately, it didn't seem like Fudge was about to explain this reasoning.

The Minister of Public Health seemed lost for words for some moments, but quickly recovered. "But _thousands_ of people will suffer for much longer than half a year without the help, sir. Perhaps you might consider...?"

The wizard snorted. "We are already giving you more than half the current supply of St. Mungo's! I'd think you'd be grateful!"

"We do appreciate it, sir," the man answered, with a definite edge to his voice. "But one of _your_ citizens hurt our people, and your offer of assistance only accounts for a fraction of the wounded!"

"Well, that's hardly our problem, is it?" The portly man blustered. "It's not like _we_ sent the man after you!"

There was a buzz of indignant muttering and several angry exclamations at that. The Speaker called for order, and the Minister of Defense stood up.

"Before we continue this... discussion," he spoke in a deep voice, "I was wondering. What is currently being done to apprehend this dark wizard? I see little point in haggling over healing potions if this man is just going to pull a similar stunt next week."

"As I said," Fudge said haughtily, "we are working on it."

"Yes, sure, I understand," the man continued. "But that is a phrase we have all heard before, and it may carry many different meanings. Would you be able to tell us how you are progressing? Do you know his residence? Where he will strike next? His methods? Whether he is acting alone or is part of a larger network?"

"He wasn't even sure of the man's name," a woman interjected bitterly. "Or what he wants."

"I'm the Minister of Magic, not the Head of Magical Law Enforcement! It's not my job to concern myself with details like that."

"If a criminal from my country killed over a million people in one day," the Minister of Defense spoke harshly, "I would damn well hope that the Prime Minister knew his name, at least! And from your response, it sounds like you either have very little clue what's going on in your own Ministry, which would speak volumes about the quality of your magical 'government' if true, by the way, or you simply don't want to admit that you have absolutely no leads on this dangerous individual who seems to be targeting non-magical people in particular."

"Excuse me?" Fudge exclaimed.

"Look," the speaker continued. "We can help. This is obviously an urgent matter of national and international importance. If you or someone else can illuminate what your people know about this... this terrorist, his motives and especially his abilities, we can dedicate several teams of our best police force and army groups to his capture."

The wizard snorted. "You seriously think _Muggles_ have a chance at finding and defeating a _wizard_? That's preposterous."

The Defense Minister ground his teeth. "_Muggles_, as you call us, are not so helpless as you seem to think. Send us someone to explain, or even better, demonstrate magical abilities, and we'll employ our most advanced spying and engagement technology. With an understanding of what magic can do, we may be able to develop both defenses and weapons. Even if it turns out we truly cannot take him down ourselves, it is sheer arrogance to believe that our help could not be useful at all."

The Minister of Magic bristled. "Now see here, I'm not going to teach a bunch of Muggles what magic spells look like! The very idea! If I had know you would be so demanding I wouldn't have come here!"

"You expected us to say 'yes sir, no sir' and lap up everything you said, didn't you?" The woman who had spoken up before asked. "Do you really expect us to sit and wait while you get your act around and handle this terrorist? And for that matter, I find it really hard to believe that a single terrorist could wreak such damage. He cannot possibly be working alone."

"Believe what you will," the Minister of Magic answered coolly.

"Very well then, I shall tell you what I believe," the Muggle answered back. "I believe that there's a group of highly dangerous individuals out to wage a magical war of terror on normal people. I believe that you and your magical Ministry are either on their side, or covering for them because you're too afraid of what we might be able to do to you if, heaven forbid, we should come to learn how magic works. I believe you are not going to expend any more than a token effort at uncovering this group, because you don't give a toss about what happens to _Muggles_. You don't feel anything but contempt for us, do you?"

The wizard glared at her. "I see no reason to respond to that."

"Is it true?" Another asked. "Are you just planning to stand by and let us get killed?"

"I hardly expect it to make a difference," another man, Lee White, sneered. "If the rest of his people share the incompetence of their leader, we might as well be on our own."

Thomas flinched. Lee White was an idiot, a troublesome back bencher with little political experience and no sense of diplomacy. His attention-seeking and "plain speaking" antics were bad enough normally, but the leader of the magical side of the country was not someone whom it seemed wise to insult.

Cornelius Fudge stared at the man. "How dare you speak to your superiors in such a way?" He demanded.

"Superiors?!" Someone else shouted, shocked. "Are you mad? Who made you –" and then cut off as the Prime Minister frantically signaled for him to shut up, as the pompous little wizard turned red hot in anger.

"I see that I have given the wrong impression by coming here tonight," the man finally said in what was probably supposed to be a cool tone, but quite failed to hide his loss of composure. "Just because I _deign_ to explain a few things to you doesn't mean that you have the right to question and judge me!" He briefly tipped his hat in a gesture of goodbye.

"Wait!" One of the woman stood up and yelled to him. "Wait, please, sir! Please, what about the children?"

The Minister of Magic turned to her. "Children?" He repeated.

"The school children from the Saint Mary's primary school. The Prime Minister has informed us that they might still be alive?"

"Oh, them," the wizard said. "Yes, I forgot to mention that. I suppose we might as well send them home now."

"Thank you, sir. And... are they all right?"

"They're all missing a leg," the man shrugged, looking somewhat calmer now that he was being addressed in properly deferential tones. "But otherwise they're unharmed, last I heard."

"What did you do to them?" A man asked, and then added, grudgingly, "sir?"

"_I_ did nothing," the Minister of Magic replied in a prickly tone. "This Quirrell guy apparently went and cursed their legs off. We've just moved them to the Ministry for the time being."

"But why did you take them away in the first place?"

"Well, they were all missing a leg! We could hardly leave them there. The International Confederation would never stand for such a breach of the Statute of Secrecy."

"So you kidnapped three hundred and twelve children," a woman said hollowly. "Made their parents believe they died in a horrible explosion, and now hold them prisoner against their will in this Ministry of yours, presumably never to return home. And you did all this just to keep the public from discovering the truth?"

"What else would you have me do?" Fudge blustered. "We can't just violate our most sacred law for a bunch of Muggle children!"

"How about _our_ laws?" Another man shot. "The laws of this country? And no," he added loudly to the person sitting next to him, who had nudged him and shot him a warning look, "I'm not going to be all 'yes sir' and 'please sir' and 'thank you sir', and pretend that this man who didn't even get elected by the public is somehow above me, just to stroke his ego."

"And _I_ am not going to let some uppity Muggle lecture me!" Cornelius Fudge almost shouted. "You will hold your tongue, mister, if you like it where it is!"

"Are you _threatening_ me?"

"Please remain calm, sir," The Speaker requested.

"If you live on British soil," the man continued after a brief pause, cold dripping from his voice, "you should follow British law, and not hide behind ungoverned institutions."

"That's a little presumptuous, sir," the wizard answered in similar tones. "Perhaps _you_ should follow _our_ laws instead."

"You would seek to rule us?"

"Well, I wasn't going to bring it up, but if you insist on pushing the point, then yes, we just might!"

Lee White jumped up. "You realize this means war, don't you?"

"Mr. White, you forget yourself!" The Speaker barked. "You do not speak for this assembly!"

"No, it's fine," Cornelius Fudge said, his cheeks red with anger, his voice shaking. "I see now that Lord Malfoy had the right idea all along. I should never have come here. The only proper way to treat the lower sorts is to kill or subjugate them!"

He nodded firmly, and disappeared with a crack of Apparition.

* * *

The Minister of Magic appeared in the Wizengamot Hall, where those of them who had bothered to show up were waiting.

"Ah, Cornelius," the Chief Warlock boomed. "How did it go?"

"Well, I'll say! Those arrogant... Those presumptuous..."

Amelia's heart sank. _Just how badly has it gone wrong?_

"What happened, Cornelius?" Albus Dumbledore asked.

"Those arrogant Muggles had the audacity to declare war on us. On _us_!"

"What made them do so?" Dumbledore demanded, over the gasps of surprise. "What did you _say_?"

"I delivered the message, just like you asked me to! And then they got all unreasonable, saying they didn't believe me and demanding _more_! The very idea!"

The Chief Warlock frowned. "Muggles have every reason to tread carefully in our presence, and little reason to take offense to an explanation, a gift and an apology for not being able to do more. Did you say something that could have provoked them, Cornelius? Perhaps a misunderstanding?"

"More likely," Lucius Malfoy cut in, "the Muggles perceived him to act weakly, and saw it as an invitation." He smiled wryly. "This is what I've been saying over and over again. We cannot live_ peacefully side by side_ with Muggles. Either we establish our superiority, or _they_ will try to dominate _us_! Today we have seen where trying to reach out a friendly hand leads us, will you listen to me now?"

Amelia sighed in frustration as the arguments flared up again.

* * *

Wednesday afternoon found the House of Commons in uproar again.

"Look, I'm just saying," Zack Scott spoke elaborately, "it is obvious that we cannot fight these people. They have magic, for God's sake! If we want to survive, the only thing we can do is submit. The next time they come to us, we apologize, show them the respect they want, and accept whatever demands they make."

"We don't even know that they are going to _make_ any demands," Rita Reham pointed out wearily once again.

"But we must agree on the response if they do!"

The Prime Minister looked ponderously at Zack Scott while people argued around him. The usually calm, manipulative man was behaving uncharacteristic of himself. Of course it was possible that the shock of the revelation of magic, and then superior attitude of the Minister of Magic had caused his current behavior, but, well...

Could magic be used to take over someone's mind, or impersonate them down to the very fingerprints?

He'd been wondering for the last hour. During a break in the discussions, he had approached Zack and asked him a personal question about his wife, and Zack had looked him squarely in the eyes and given him an answer only the real Zack Scott would have known. So it had to be him, and yet... something felt off. Unfortunately, despite knowing about magic for several years now, he'd never seen many hints of what it was capable of.

A loud cough in the doorway; his personal secretary stood there, looking disturbed. He nodded his apologies and left his place, quickly stepping over to her as curious glances followed him. The woman silently passed him a note.

_Zack Scott's wife on the telephone just now. He was found bound and comatose half an hour ago. Currently in hospital._

With a jolt he looked up from the paper, staring at the man who had been addressing the assembly.

The impostor met his eyes, raised an eyebrow, and sneered. Then he whirled around, and disappeared with a soft *pop*.

* * *

On Wednesday night, the Palace of Westminster went up in flames.

* * *

Life went on. Despite the nation-wide panic, you couldn't just drop all your responsibilities and take to the streets – and what would that accomplish, anyway? So, after reading the morning paper, and worrying quite a bit about all the recent developments, Mary drank the last of her coffee and went to the hospital to start her shift. She wondered idly whether Zack Scott would wake up today. The politician who had been found naked and unconscious in the cellar of an abandoned building while to all appearances he was speaking in parliament at the time was in one of _her_ wards, and it was intriguing, even if more than a little scary, to be so close to the events that were shaking the country.

Mary clocked in and walked to the ward to inspect the patients, but she stopped in her tracks right before the entrance.

Blood was seeping out from underneath the door.

Shaking, fearful of the sight that might meet her eyes but knowing that _someone_ would have to do it, she opened the door and gasped at the blood, and the body of her colleague lying mutilated on the floor.

"Were you the one who sounded the alarm?" A creepy voice whispered in her ears. She whirled around, but there was no one there, no one still alive. Panic rising, she tried to run, but then realized she couldn't move.

"I think you might have been," the creepy voice decided.

"N-no," she whispered, only to be met with a throaty laugh from the same invisible source.

"_Crucio._"

* * *

On Thursday morning, a group of rioters broke into old Tom's antique store, accused him of being a wizard, and set the place on fire.

* * *

Patrick stood on the pavement between houses 19 and 23, laying out a large pile of wood and tinder.

The people in the neighborhood had always assumed that it was a mistake that the houses on the odd-numbered side of the street skipped number 21. Someone had brought up the suggestion of renumbering the houses, a few years back, but it would simply be too impractical for the people living in the later houses to change their addresses. So it had been left, a strangeness everyone overlooked for convenience.

But with the recent developments, Patrick figured there might just be something more going on. There was magic in the world, wizards attacking the government, and didn't wizards have to live somewhere too? Why would a street engineer just miss a number, and then not correct it before people moved in? Sure, there were explanations, but perhaps the most natural one was that the house wasn't missing at all. If wizards could impersonate a secretary of state to the point of knowing irrelevant personal details, might they not also be able to hide a house?

His mother thought he was crazy when he brought up this theory in the morning, but he wasn't just going to go to school like everything was fine. He was going to get to the bottom of this.

He poured oil on the wood, and threw a match. With a large _woompf_ the fire flared up.

Patrick waited. The bane of invisible items, he had learned from his regular D&D group, was smoke. An invisible person standing in smoke would leave a gap. Other people could see that. And a house might be a slightly different thing, but it was worth trying.

He stared at the divide between houses 19 and 23 as smoke from the slightly wet wood wafted by. Absolutely nothing weird showed up.

_Wait, no_. The smoke was moving a lot more towards the 23 door than towards 19; it hardly seemed to move in that direction at all. Yet there was no wind. Even though his mind insisted that nothing _looked_ strange at all, when he considered the movement of the smoke there was evidently _something_ going on_._

_"What do you think you're doing, you little vandal, lighting fires in the street?"_ An angry voice demanded behind him. Patrick jumped, and turned. A middle-aged man stood there, arms crossed, eyes flashing.

Patrick stamped down on his reflex to run, and instead smiled brightly. "It's all for a good purpose, sir. I've just confirmed the presence of wizards in our street."

* * *

"Paul? What's wrong?"

Paul stared up at his co-pilot. "All the instruments have gone haywire all of a sudden!"

The woman blanched. "Well. I guess this is where we put our training to the test."

* * *

Around dinnertime, Patrick was no longer alone. A crowd had gathered around him, and the more people were there, the more ideas got brought up and accommodated.

They had tried to determine the exact divide between houses 19 and 23, and got a headache for their efforts. They could mark two places on the walls which seemed quite close to each other, but they couldn't manage to stand exactly between them, even though they could walk from one to the other in a single step.

Now, some people had created a good hundred Molotov cocktails. The inhabitants from houses 19 and 23 were not at all pleased with the plans, even despite their discomfort with the idea of living next to a wizard, but they didn't get much of a say in the situation. The police was wisely staying well away, and a number of people had brought fire extinguishers to stop any fire from spreading, just in case. A journalist with camera crew stood a bit to the side, capturing every moment. Other neighbors had reviled Patrick and the others for their stupidity, and fled their houses for safer ground, far away from where magic might be happening.

Patrick smiled broadly. This was _his_ moment.

With a flick of his arm, he hurled the first bottle right at the center between the two markers they had been able to place. It exploded, not _quite_ at the wall although he wouldn't have been able to say exactly at what point it did, and then the fire almost instantly died out.

The crowd roared – if they had still needed any more confirmation, they had it now. Patrick was pushed aside as the others joined in, and bottle after bottle was flung at the divide. Every time a bottle hit there was a brief explosion, and then the fire quickly died (except twice, when the thrower missed and hit one of the houses on either side, but these fires were both extinguished before any harm could be done). The wall on the outside of the markers became more and more charred, even when no fire remained, but the center remained perfectly clear.

At the thirtieth bottle, there was a sudden shimmering in the air, but nothing more than that.

The next thirteen bottles had a similar effect. And then, at the forty-fourth bottle, there was a flash of light and the group suddenly found themselves standing in front of house 21. Patrick blinked. He had _suspected_, but to see it happen like that was... was something else entirely.

There was a chuckle behind them. "Impressive."

Patrick spun around rapidly. Behind them stood a tall, muscular man, wearing gray robes, a piece of wood held loosely in his hand. _Wand_, Patrick mentally filled in. The air around the wizard was shimmering with a strange blue light – some kind of arcane shield?

"This was my mother's old house," the wizard spoke softly. "The wards haven't been renewed in ten years. Still, I wouldn't have expected a bunch of Muggles to take them down so easily. So, congratulations on your achievement."

Mrs. Jones, who lived at number 41, didn't wait. She grabbed another bottle and hurled it right at the wizard. The man, however, merely waved his wand and the projectile was flicked to the side, falling harmlessly on the street. Then he pointed his wand at the woman. "_Sectumsempra_."

Blood spurted from Mrs. Jones's face and chest, as though she were slashed multiple times with a sharp sword. The woman collapsed in a pool of blood, the assorted people staring in shock.

Patrick didn't want to look, but couldn't tear his eyes away. _Holy shit._

"Oh, you little fools. You haven't got a clue what you got yourself into, have you?"

The man's left hand dipped into his pocket, and then he threw _something_ to the right, then to the left. On either side of the crowd, a wall of dark red mist appeared in the street, blocking any escape they might have contemplated.

"Let's have some fun, shall we?"

Patrick glanced to the sides, suddenly frightened. There was no going back from what they had started; the mist was probably dangerous, they couldn't flee anymore. Yet the wizard didn't seem to have any fear at all.

He made a snap decision and grabbed two bottles from one of the boxes even as William, who lived three streets over, was already flinging another bottle at the wizard. The man merely pushed it away again, right into another bystander. William roared, and tossed another bottle, and then a third from the box by his feet.

Too much was happening at once. The screams from the burning man, the whimpering from the slashed woman, and not too far away, a man yelling in some kind of agony after he had stepped into the mist. People were throwing Molotov cocktails at the wizard, staying as far away as they could, but he just flung them aside, until finally someone managed to hit him from behind.

The wizard merely stumbled as the explosive hit his shield, and he turned around and yelled "_Reducto!_" The man who had thrown the projectile just _exploded_, but Patrick, not one to miss an opportunity when it presented itself, threw his two bottles in quick succession at the back of the wizard, then ran to another part of the street to avoid being targeted immediately.

Some of the others had seen it too, the weakness, and they scattered. _Can't stay too close to each other, he'll just fling our weapons back at us and set us on fire in groups._ But if they could surround him, he couldn't defend all sides at once. If enough explosives could bring down the protections of a house, wouldn't they be able to take on a person too?

The wizard snarled as blast after blast tore into his shields, and he aimed his wand and cast "_Reducto_" and then "_Reducto_" again, each time exploding one of his opponents. But he had made a crucial mistake, Patrick thought. He had given them no choice, hemming them in and blocking their escape. They would all fight to the death, even grumpy old Mrs. Wind who always complained about the loudness of his music.

It was Patrick's friend Kim whose bottle hit the wizard's right-hand side, shattered the shield with a large flash and snapped his wand.

There was a brief moment of shock as the man stared in horror at the broken piece of wood, then looked at the people who were dying around them, half still alive, still standing. _This is it_, Patrick thought, wishing he still had explosives. _They can be beaten_.

With a scream of pain, the wizard was engulfed in flame as another bottle hit him from the back, and then he suddenly disappeared.

Patrick looked at the camera, the reporter and crew lying dead nearby. It was amazing how steady his voice was when he asked no one in particular: "do you think it's still running?"

* * *

"Things are spinning out of control rapidly."

Amelia nodded grimly at the old wizard sitting across the table. "Yes. They are."

"I should never have agreed to let Cornelius deliver the message," Albus Dumbledore sighed bitterly. "Five thousand Galleons' worth of potions, paid from my own vault, and he manages to turn it into an insult. And then he bungles what we all agreed would be a simple explanation and honest question-answering by insisting on establishing his superiority. I suppose it was naive to think that the fool would do something quite so sophisticated as following instructions."

Amelia smirked. "Yes. You always were quite the optimist, Albus. But do not blame yourself too much." She rolled her eyes. "I agreed to it, too. I do not believe there was much choice in the matter; the Wizengamot would not allow _you_ to go, and once Cornelius offered there was no way to send me instead. You know the kind of offense he takes at people he believes are trying to usurp his position."

Albus stared into space. "I wonder whether I should go regardless. Explain things, extend a hand of friendship, without the Wizengamot's blessing if need be."

She could have slapped the old fool. "No! You know they will never accept that! Once upon a time, perhaps, you might have got away with brashly flaunting the Wzengamot's will, but right now your public support is lower than it's ever been, especially with so many thinking that you're the kind of person who would send young children to die to your plots. If you defy its decisions now, you will be ousted from the Wizengamot, ousted even from Hogwarts. It will be the _end_ of you, don't you see?"

Albus just shook his head. "Perhaps it is worth the end of my political career, if I can only stop this war in its tracks."

She rolled her eyes again. "You _won't_ stop the war in its tracks, at best you'll add a moderating influence for a while. But then what will we do? After your fall from grace, Lucius will hold the vote in the Wizengamot, and will be all but uncontested in his call for dominion over Muggles. How will your sacrifice stop the war, if that's exactly what Lucius will pursue?"

He closed his eyes. "I know. I just... wonder, whether I couldn't do what is _right_ for once, rather than merely what is _politically expedient_."

She looked at his face, old and weary. "What would you tell them, anyway?"

"That we're not all like that," Albus Dumbledore breathed. "That most of us want peace, just like they do. That we – some of us – will help them, when we can. That what they're seeing is merely the consequence of a single man we have no way of controlling, and a divided government fearful of change."

Amelia snorted. "That would be lying – it isn't a single person anymore, not by far. There are various elements in our society who are taking every advantage of the current hostile atmosphere they can, to get away with being cruel towards Muggles. We've arrested Willy Widdershins this morning for enchanting whole streets full of Muggle doorknobs to bite off fingers, and I think he's only the tip of the iceberg. Did you hear what Macnair did to the people who managed to break the wards to his mother's house?"

Albus nodded. "Will he be punished for it?"

Amelia shook her head sadly. "We've taken him in for questioning, but the law does state that a wizard has the right to defend his house. Perhaps you might say he used excessive force, but the fact is that they _were_ attacking him, and actually managed to take down his shields and break his wand. He can argue any defense was justified, given the power they displayed."

"So we cannot even tell them that the perpetrators are being punished."

"No," she agreed, "we cannot. And Albus, surely you realize that such a message wouldn't do any good at all? Even if every Muggle heard you, if your message was heartening and loving and convincing, it would soon be forgotten amidst all the other things which are going on. A hand of friendship is easy to ignore when it stands among people hurling curses at you. And you know _he_ will not stop. No matter _what_ we try, it's never going to work unless we can stop _him_. So if you have any suggestions..."

"I have no wisdom on how to kill Voldemort," Dumbledore spoke sadly, looking at his hands. "None at all, nor any clue how to even find him. I can think of only one thing to stop him, that might at least still the bloodshed for now., and yet even that might not be achievable."

"_Might not_ sounds better than _is not_," Amelia pointed out. She had little patience for mystery. "Tell me more."

* * *

On Friday morning, the ferries to Calais and Dublin both sank at the same time, even as new crowds gathered around those places where mysterious hints – like missing house numbers or building sites that had been wrecked for as long as anyone could remember – suggested that perhaps magic might be at play, and as innocent nature healers, gothic teenagers and people outside the common social structure were abused or even outright attacked, and large protests were staged in the streets.

* * *

"Good evening, Lieutenant General Darrens."

"Welcome, Brigadier Johnson. Please, have a seat."

Thomas did as he was bid, looking curiously at his companions. There were six men in the room so far, only four of whom he knew, all high-ranked officers in the army and Royal Marines.

The door opened and two other men came in. The Lieutenant General bade them to sit down too, and locked the door.

"We're complete now," he said. "Thank you all for coming."

"What's this about, sir?" the last newcomer asked.

"The wizard threat, of course," Darrens answered. "You are all men of a certain influence. Together, we can set a course of action to save our country."

"Have we been commanded to act?" Major Meldon asked, surprised. "I have not received any notice. The government –"

"– is compromised," Lieutenant General Darrens cut in. "Did you not hear what happened on Tuesday? If they pulled that kind of stunt off once, I won't believe for a second that they haven't tried it again, and without leaving a trace behind this time. And parliament _knows_ it. Can't trust anyone anymore. Why do you think no orders have come from above, not even to disperse the riots in the streets? If they haven't yet been taken over completely, the atmosphere of distrust is making the government fully ineffective, that's why."

"They probably got the Prime Minister," one of the men Thomas didn't know spoke up. "Seeing how he told everyone not to _risk their lives playing the hero_ when that mob almost managed to kill a wizard yesterday."

"Right," the Lieutenant General nodded. "So we're on our own. Without the guidance of the government, the military has to be willing to take matters into its own hands. _Are_ you willing, men? To do what it takes to save our people?"

Major Meldon coughed. "How do you know _we_ can all be trusted?"

"None of us are important enough to warrant specific enemy attention," Lieutenant General Darrens explained calmly. "So I'm going to guess none of us have their minds controlled. It's a gamble, I know, but there's sufficient power in this group to make a real difference, even if one or two of us should be compromised."

"I'm with you, sir," another of the men spoke firmly. "They've attacked our people. They've compromised our government. With all airports closed for fear of further interference, and now the boats, they've even taken away our chances to flee the country. I bet communication is next. We need to do what we can, while we can still do it."

"But what _can_ we do?" Another asked.

"Well, _I_ am sure as hell not prepared to roll over and accept our new magical overlords." the first speaker asserted.

Thomas looked concerned from one face to the next. His loyalties were divided, but he couldn't show that, here. "Are we really sure of who or what is the enemy, here? For what that supposed Minister said, this all might just be the work of a single terrorist."

Major Sandon snorted. "A single terrorist who systematically works on taking over control in the country? Bollocks. What if he succeeds, what's he planning to do, continue to wage war on _them_? No, if there is a single terrorist, he knows that they'll let him get away with it. Where are the good guys fighting this supposed bad guy? No one teleported into Westminster Palace to expose the impostor, no one stopped innocent hospital personnel from getting tortured, and no one came to arrest that crazy plonker when he exploded ten people yesterday. So no, I'm not gonna give any credit to that bull."

"Agreed," Lieutenant General Darrens nodded. "So, men, are you willing to do what it takes, even without explicitly being given the order?"

There were nods around the table. Even Thomas slowly nodded. If he refused, they would think he was also "compromised", and do _who knew what_ to him. At the very least, he would be asked to leave, if they dared to let him go, and he wouldn't learn what they were planning to do, and whether Sarissa might be in any danger.

"Right," the Lieutenant General spoke. "We know our disadvantages, including that we don't actually _know_ all the things they can do. But there is one large advantage which I am willing to bet we have over them."

"Numbers," Major General Smith said grimly. "If there's one thing I gathered from the glimpses we saw, it's that there really aren't that many wizards. Their Minister thought that a single potioneer working for half a year was a lot – you don't say that sort of thing when you've got thousands working under you. I'm going to hazard a guess that there's a _lot_ more of us than there are of them. That's why they have to resort to subterfuge rather than outright attack."

"Agreed," the Lieutenant General nodded. "I think we can safely say that the enemy will control our government within the week – if they don't already do so. But they could never control all the _people_. We have _anarchy_, gentlemen, but this doesn't have to be a disadvantage. We have seen yesterday that ordinary people _can_ form a real threat to a wizard. Those people had only hand-made weapons – just think how much could be accomplished with proper explosives, grenades, dynamite, or even with handmade weapons designed to fight humans, like smoke bombs?"

"Hold on," one of the men who hadn't yet spoken piped up. "Do you want to arm the general population?"

"Yes," the Lieutenant General said simply. "It's our best hope. We'll open up our military bases, hand out proper weapons to willing citizens, tell them that the government is likely compromised, and pass on the word how to make Molotov cocktails, smoke bombs and pepper bombs. No matter what the wizards pull, there will always be people left who can resist them unless they manage to wipe out sixty million people."

"But the consequences!" The man protested."Putting weapons in the hands of untrained people –"

"– is better than having those same people completely defenseless," the Lieutenant General said authoritatively. "Yes, accidents can happen, but even if we lose one of us for every one of them we can kill, that's a win."

"But what about afterwards? If you give the people weapons, you can't just _undo_ that, they'll always be out there, accidents or malice waiting to happen!"

"We can worry about the future _after_ we reassure that we have one," Darrens bit. "It really isn't _that_ big a deal. We'll still exercise some discretion as to what weapons are handed to who, I'm not proposing we hand a barrel of guns to the first lowlife who asks for it! The main thing is that we spread the power around the country, to allow enough people to give a good fight. If, it the future, anyone wants to run amok with heavy weapons in peacetime, they can already make explosives themselves anyway."

"What you're suggesting is a complete civil war," Major Meldon spoke carefully. "With wizards controlling the governments, but ordinary citizens forming militias... neither side is going to win that easily, it's going to be _long_ and _bloody_. I suppose, compared to the alternative, it _may_ be preferable because it allows a shred of hope of freedom, but... Unless you're counting on UN interference?"

Lieutenant General Darrens shook his head. "I don't expect the UN to intercede, no. There's wizards in other countries too, and somehow I don't think they'll be on our side. It's entirely possible that the UK is just a test run, that the end goal is wizard domination across the globe, so the other countries will have their own hands full. Also, the UN really doesn't have much to offer that we don't already have by ourselves. No, my suggestion was going to be a preemptive strike."

"With what target?" one of the other brigadiers asked.

"_Every target_," Darrens stated with fire in his eyes. "We'll take down every single magical place we can find in one big sweep. It'll devastate them enough to buy us time, and if we capture some of the enemy, we can use that time to experiment with their abilities. The teleporting makes it difficult, but maybe they can't do that if they're tied up? Or if we keep them drugged? I'm sure the scientists can figure something out."

"How will you find such targets of opportunity?" Major General Smith said sceptically. "Looking for missing house numbers?"

"No, I was thinking of somewhat larger targets." The Lieutenant General reached for his bag and drew forth a number of maps. "You must realize that magic _can_ be detected. As that teenager over in Winsford figured out, it's all about noticing anomalies, like a missing house number. Over the years, many people have reported such anomalies. Strangely dressed people arriving and mysteriously disappearing on a London train station every year on the same day, to name an example. Or a pub that certain people can only see from the corner of their eyes. And then one of my computer experts got some _very_ peculiar results when analyzing satellite images in Russia, and she wrote a little program to look for more such apparent errors before word came from above that 'it was known, and highly secret'. Then there's the fact that a number of people – maybe one in a hundred, or in a thousand, I never tested it properly – can _see_ things in such places when they know there's something special there. Like a pub, or a weird monument, or an extra street."

"So you want to send in the soldiers who can see those places and abduct any wizards they come across?" Thomas asked with a frown. _Squibs_, he realized. They wouldn't be able to get into all the places, but they should at least be able to see Diagon Alley, and probably St. Mungo's too. But how did Darrens know that? There weren't _that_ many Squibs. Had he actually been experimenting with this for years? To what end?

"Where necessary," Darrens nodded. "Ideally, we try to use explosives to make those areas visible first, like the Winsford mob did. Unfortunately, quite a few of those places are in busy areas, so we're a bit limited in how much we want to do. Here, for example," he rifled through the maps and put one of London on top, "there is the pub I mentioned, and if I estimate correctly, there's something big behind it. These places over here –" he pointed at two other small circles "– are too close to normal people too. But where possible, we should send in the soldiers, or use heavier artillery. I've got the codes to launch nuclear missiles."

"Woho!" One of the men Thomas didn't know jumped out. "Are you frigging _nuts_? Throw atomic bombs on your own country?!"

"A few of these places are _far_ from civilization," the Lieutenant General pointed out. "It would serve to make an excellent point and have relatively little ill consequence for our people."

"I, too, would rather avoid nuclear missiles," Thomas said sharply. "I do not believe this is warranted, and it would create problems for years in the future!"

"That, or the wizards contain it," Smith suggested. "They have magic, don't they? And if they cannot handle that, we might just have something to use against them. I say it's a good idea, if we can keep the contamination in hand somewhat. One thing though, I think we shouldn't hit _all_ the areas we know about, because then the survivors will just hide in the ones we _don't_ know anything about. We don't want them feeling safe. Hit some areas hard, really hard, but leave a couple others open. Save those for later. Make them _paranoid_. That kind of atmosphere might help to create a route for negotiation."

Thomas looked helplessly around the table. He had one ally, maybe, one sane person. The others looked all too eager; they wanted revenge after the brutal killings, torture and a few days of tactical warfare. He could protest, but he wasn't going to be able to stop this insanity. Perhaps that was what Darrens had intended, when he invited exactly this group, to create legitimacy in numbers while remaining unopposed? None of the other men Thomas knew were of the more cautious nature.

_But then why am I here?_ Had something – faith, perhaps – conspired to get someone on the side of the wizards invited to this meeting?

"That's a reasonable tactic," Major Meldon agreed, "but what targets _do_ we hit? I see a lot of circles here, but it doesn't say what is there. I don't really want to hit a hospital or a school or something."

"_They_ didn't care about burning a hospital with patients still in it," Sandon bit. "Why should _we_? I say go for it."

Darrens was already grabbing another map, one of the whole island this time. "All right then. I'd propose _these_ areas for nuclear and regular strikes."

Thomas's heart skipped a beat when the man pointed at a small figure eight shaped spot in the Scottish Highlands.

* * *

-o-o-o-o-o-

* * *

******Author's Note:** With regards to the session in the House of Commons: unfortunately, I know next to nothing about how such sessions normally go, so I apologize for any strangenesses that don't really fit the British system, and hope I got it roughly right. :)

The Speaker (as some helpful readers explained) is a formal chairman-like position. While _normally_ all conversation would go via the Speaker, I think that in this case it makes sense to simply have the members of parliament directly address Fudge, as he is an outsider giving an information session.


	23. Chapter 103: The Muggle War, Pt 2

**CHAPTER 103: THE MUGGLE WAR, PT 2**

* * *

It couldn't be long, they knew.

Albus Dumbledore and most of the staff were going around with faces of extreme worry. The Daily Prophet spoke of Muggles attacking wizards and the Muggle government going into hiding. Friday morning brought news of suspiciously large groups of Muggles being spotted near magical dwellings.

Yet it was still a surprise when, on Friday evening, a tawny owl fluttered into the Great Hall during dinner and dropped a smoking red envelope on the Head Table. All eyes followed it, as only owls sent with enchantments of urgency were allowed to enter the Great Hall outside breakfast time. The Headmaster frowned, and pointed his wand at the letter.

The Howler exploded. A witch's voice, controlled but loud enough to make the windows reverberate, filled the hall.

_"MUGGLES ARE ABOUT TO BOMB HOGWARTS. GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE _NOW_!"_

There was a moment of horrified silence. And then the screaming and shouting and jumping up and running started, before the Headmaster jumped up from the Head Table and a blast of thunder shook the Great Hall.

"Miss Granger," he bellowed. "Evacuate everyone. Somewhere away from Muggle eyes!"

And then, amid gasps of surprise, he grabbed Fawkes's claw and disappeared.

* * *

Hermione sat in shock as everyone turned to look at her, faces filled with hope and fear. Part of her was baffled that the Headmaster would just _leave_. But a more important part, one that had been in charge for most of Monday as the innocent child that Hermione had been was retreating further and further and she just kept on doing what needed doing, was already taking control.

"Group up everyone! Groups of at most fifty, holding hands! And I want a member of staff with every group!"

Where could she take them... She had been to a lot of places on Monday, but mostly those had people in them, even if in some cases those people were all dead. But there might well be Muggles around or on their way, and they would not be kindly inclined towards wizards right now. She needed a safer place, away from everyone else.

Her parents had taken her camping once in the Forest of Dean. It wasn't exactly Muggle-free, but it was not a school holiday now, and there were places there where few people ever came. She pictured the place, and let Xare take her there.

* * *

The children stared in shocked betrayal at the place where their heroine had disappeared.

"Do as she said!" Professor McGonagall commanded. "Prefects, organize your houses!"

* * *

Yes, she thought, looking around at the silent area between the trees. It would have to do. If it wasn't good enough, the staff could always suggest a better place _after_ she got everyone out. How long would it take for the bomb to come? A Patronus would have been faster than a fighter jet, but an owl? If the sender had been wise enough to Apparate to the gates before posting the owl it might have bought them some time, but still: the message had been sent in a real panic. No, it did not at all sound like they would have more than minutes...

She burned back to Hogwarts, where people greeted her with sighs of relief. "Is everyone holding hands yet?" she yelled.

* * *

Harry was already running towards the little apartment where his parents were having dinner, his heart beating rapidly.

_What is going on?_

Were Muggles actually going to throw a bomb on a school? And would that even _work_? The Hogwarts wards were ancient – but would they be able to withstand an atomic bomb? A normal one? Evidently the Headmaster considered it possible that bad things might happen, but where had _he_ gone off to?

Could it all be a trap to get the children to a more exposed location? If so, they were going to walk right into it, because they couldn't risk _staying_ with that information.

Harry screeched to a halt as he reached the door. "Mum, Dad, you need to follow me to the Great Hall _now_."

* * *

Minerva couldn't cast a Patronus anymore, that was the problem. Filch wasn't in the Great Hall, nor was Hagrid. Madam Pince and Madam Pomfrey also had duties elsewhere, and there might be children in the infirmary, and then there was Professor Trelawney who rarely came down to eat with the others. They had all become so used to their Patronuses that they didn't really have ways to quickly communicate without them.

She spotted Lesath Lestrange being pushed away by a number of Gryffindors in a group he had wanted to join. She would have some words to say to those boys later – and this for _her_ Gryffindors! She might have some more than mere words in store for them, in fact. But for now, there were higher priorities.

"Lestrange!" she called. He turned, and she waved him over.

"Have you learned yet how to send messages using a Patronus?"

* * *

Harry ran into the Great Hall, his parents on his heel, panting as _they_ did not have his army training. Ahead of him, he saw the burst of flame as _half_ a group disappeared, the other half looking surprised and rather sheepish.

How long did they still have? And what would happen if they were too late?

"I think – you should – bring the food – Harry," Petunia said in gasps behind him. She breathed deeply a few times. "We'll need it – this may well take hours."

Harry nodded. "I'll see what I can do." He pushed his parents into the nearest group of Hufflepuffs. "Hold hands with them, and make sure everyone else does, too." His father nodded.

His Mum was right; trivial though it may seem, if they were stuck in some random place – where _was_ Hermione taking them, anyway? – for hours, the children would get hungry, would need their strength. The mostly uneaten food from the five tables would probably fit in his trunk, but he didn't _have_ his trunk, and the middle of an urgent evacuation was probably not the right time to run up to his dormitory. _Nobody_ ought to be running for their stuff, even if it was an expensive trunk full of books their father had bought for them.

With that thought, the reality finally hit him.

If a bomb hit, he would lose his trunk, with all his books and clothes and everything in it. The Ravenclaw dormitory would be gone, this _hall_ would be destroyed. They could all die every moment they lingered. _He_ could be dead in the next ten seconds if he were unlucky.

Behind him, another group flamed away. Harry grit his teeth and ran towards where McGonagall and Lesath were standing together.

"Get into a group!" She barked at him.

"Professor, can't we _stop_ this bomb?"

"I'm pretty sure that that's what Professor Dumbledore is doing, Potter!"

_Oh, of course._ "Do you need any help to get this done faster?"

"We've got the situation in hand, if all the children _let themselves be evacuated_."

"Can you get the food?" He asked. "My mum says that –"

"Yes, now _go_!"

Harry joined the nearest group, and realized that they, too, weren't holding hands properly: there was a separate loop of ten children to one side. He yanked two of them apart and pushed them towards other children. Then he stepped away and looked around to see whether the other groups were fine.

It was Professor Snape who grabbed him and steered him into the group of Slytherins who were next up for transportation. "We will handle this from here," he sneered. "Stay. Put."

* * *

Rubeus Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, ran towards the forest in great bounding steps, followed by his wolfhound Fang.

One of the children had sent him a human Patronus to order him to the Great Hall immediately, as the school was about to be attacked.

The boy hadn't said what was going to happen, but an attack on the school meant that _far_ more than his own life was in danger.

Aragog and his children would have to be prepared for whatever might be coming. There were very little potential attackers who would be kindly inclined towards the giant spiders, and he could help. He had been allowed a new wand only last month, but he'd been practicing, and now he finally had a good reason to use it.

* * *

As the last group of students, together with Professors McGonagall and Snape, arrived with her in the forest, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. She'd done it. Everyone was out of there before any bomb might hit. The students were safe.

Professor Flitwick shuffled over to her and Professor McGonagall. Speaking in a low voice, he asked: "Do we actually know whether all the students were in the Great Hall or Infimary?"

* * *

A _Sonorus_ by Professor McGonagall had called for all students to check whether their friends were there.

Fred and George Weasley looked at each other. They had taken to carrying around the map ever since the Headmaster had borrowed it from them, just in case it might be needed again. They didn't really like showing their piece of the Hogwarts security system to Professor McGonagall, who tended to be a lot more strict than the Headmaster, but lives were in danger.

They pushed their way through the students to the rescue team, led by Hermione Granger and Professor McGonagall. Fred was already removing the map from his pocket and muttered "_I solemnly swear that I am up to no good_", this one time a complete lie. Lines started tracing themselves on the parchment, giving a complete outline of the school and everyone still in it.

"Professor," George offered, "we think we can help."

* * *

Professors Snape and Flitwick were keeping the curious students away from the central group as Professor McGonagall spread the map out over an improvised table. Fred and George, who had become quite adept at scanning the map in over two years of owning it, were helping to look over it.

"There," Fred pointed. "No, wait, that's Professor Dumbledore, what's he doing in the library? Madam Pince got everyone out of there already."

"Mindery Sodel," George said, pointing at a girls' bathroom at the fifth floor. "Wow, she must have been there all through dinner. Constipation much?"

Professor McGonagall just shot them an angry glare, as Hermione disappeared in a burst of flame.

"There's another one, in the Hufflepuff dormitory. Oh, and three children in the Slytherin dungeons."

"And some lovebirds in the grounds, see?"

Professor McGonagall closed her eyes. If they were all going to survive this, she was never getting angry at the Weasley twins again.

* * *

"I don't know how to get to the Slytherin dungeons," Hermione was saying. "And I'm not sure Robert Jugson is going to want to come with me either."

"I'll come with you." Snape grabbed her by the shoulder, and looked in her eyes. "_That_ is what it looks like down there."

With another burst of flame, the pair disappeared.

Harry was sitting by the table, sick with nerves. He should probably be doing something, but he had no idea _what_, so he just kept watching as Hermione went back to Hogwarts again and again, picking up the students who hadn't been at dinner or near a staff member. Every time, there was a very real chance that she'd arrive in the heart of a massive explosion. Every time she came back, his heart unclenched a little, just to wrench again as she went to fetch the next student.

"... see no real reason for alarm," Professor Hooch was saying. "Hogwarts is unplottable. How would they even find it?"

"Look, I'm pretty sure that message was from Sarissa Johnson," Professor McGonagall said tensely. "A capable Ravenclaw student in her time, with a Muggle husband at a high position in their military. You should not dismiss her assessment of their success so lightly."

"But they would not willingly attack school children!" Professor Burbage, the Muggle Studies teacher, exclaimed. "Even if they're angry, they're not _evil_!"

"Excuse me," Harry cut in. He could use the distraction. "But what exactly does _unplottable_ mean?"

"You can't put it on a map," Professor Flitwick explained. "And if Muggles tried to go there, they would get lost, or remember they had other things to do."

"What about satellite photos? Could you see it from space?"

The teachers looked at each other.

"No," Professor Snape said (apparently, he had come back in one piece). "The Hogwarts grounds and other unplottable areas show up blank, and Muggle eyes automatically fail to notice that."

"Muggle _eyes_?" Harry pressed. "What about computers?"

"What's a computer?" Professor Burbage asked.

* * *

"I think that was the last," Fred said. Hermione breathed a deep sigh, and sank down on the soft transfigured chair that Professor McGonagall quickly pushed underneath her.

"Is the Headmaster still there?" she asked.

The twins just shook their heads. "He was popping in and out for a bit, but we can't find him anymore."

_What is he doing?_ But it wasn't important. The crucial thing was that everyone was safe, now.

"Do you think they'll really do it?" she asked no one in particular.

Harry, who was also standing by the table, nodded grimly. "They probably don't even know that it's children they'd be killing. If they used their computers to detect places that didn't show up on the maps, and then sent drones or missiles to the corresponding coordinates, Hogwarts would be a prime target. Sarissa Johnson's Muggle husband was probably the only one who would realize that an undetectable place in Scotland was likely to be a school, and _he_ couldn't point that out, because they'd realize the connection and keep him out of further discussions."

At that moments both the twins gasped. Everyone looked in their direction.

The Hogwarts map had gone completely blank.


	24. Chapter 104: The Muggle War, Pt 3

**Author's Note:** in this chapter, there are a couple of things happening behind the scenes, which remain off-camera because the main characters never see it happening. Following reader requests, the chapter will eventually be adapted to include a few scenes showing this background, but this may take a while, since I'm focusing on posting new chapters for the moment.

* * *

**CHAPTER 104: THE MUGGLE WAR, PT 3**

* * *

With a *crack* of Apparition, Professor McGonagall reappeared on the forest ground.

"It's not just Hogwarts," she said heavily. "I don't know exactly what is happening, but the Ministry is in complete chaos. Apparently there have been attacks just about everywhere. The visitor entrance to the Ministry has been closed and there was a group of Aurors in the Atrium, like they were expecting trouble there. I could hardly find anyone to even speak to; most of the competent people were either gone or completely swamped. Shacklebolt told me that if we weren't in any immediate danger, we'd better stay where we are, because that put us in better position than most people!"

"That's crazy," Harry bit. "We're completely exposed here."

They were sitting in a small circle away from the others: the Hogwarts staff and Michael, Harry and Hermione. Some of the teachers had raised an eyebrow when Harry inserted himself and Hermione into the meeting, but Professor McGonagall had immediately included them, asking Hermione to send her Patronus to Professor Dumbledore. The Headmaster, it turned out, was still alive, but he was occupied and had little more to say than to put Professor McGonagall in charge of the student body.

"I spoke to a man on the magical maintenance team," Professor McGonagall continued. "For what he could tell me, there have been bombs on several major magical sites away from Muggle cities. Muggles are also clearing the areas immediately around other places like the Ministry and St. Mungo's, so they might be planning to attack overnight. They even supposedly managed to get into Diagon Alley. He only knew second-hand information, but what he said sounded plausible, and we already know several family houses have been attacked. If we're going to relocate, I have no idea where to. Nowhere in the wizarding world seems safe."

"Nowhere near Muggles either," Professor Sprout murmured sadly. "Present company excepted, of course."

Michael just shrugged. Harry would have expected him to be more uncomfortable as the only Muggle in the group, but his one week of teaching at Hogwarts had made him more familiar with magic, and Professor McGonagall had explicitly invited him into this meeting. Petunia had also been invited, but she had preferred to stay with the younger children. "Of course. But why not take the children abroad? Hermione can take anyone anywhere at will, can she not?"

"Tensions abroad are not as great as here," Professor Snape conceded. "But I wouldn't dare go anywhere near magical sites there, either. The risk that foreign Muggle governments will take the same view is too great. For that matter, as far as I could tell the British Muggle government has been completely dysfunctional for some days. It might well be that these attacks were perpetrated by a foreign agency, and in that case we do _not_ want to relocate to the seat of their own power."

"It might not have been any government at all," Michael contradicted him. "I'm not an expert in military security, but for what little I know, the command chain to fire nuclear weapons allows for several shortcuts in case of emergencies. I've even heard of an American facility where the launch codes were all set to a sequence of zeros, although I'm not entirely sure whether that's true or just an urban legend. Regardless, I'm going to guess that it was simply someone in our military."

"Perhaps," Snape shrugged, "but I'm not going to gamble on it. Being near magical areas, whether here or abroad, is a greater risk than staying put."

"What about abandoned areas abroad?" Hermione suggested.

"You forget Apparition!" Professor Flitwick squeaked. "It's important not to be completely dependent on a single phoenix, Miss Granger. If anything happens abroad, the children won't be able to Apparate home, or even Apparate at all, if they've never been anywhere close enough."

"Not to mention," Snape added, "other magical governments might not be too pleased if we take our war to their borders. Consider this. We are in a random piece of forest in the middle of nowhere. No one even has a reason to _suspect_ we're here, and the foliage stops notice from above. Even in the unlikely event that someone in an airplane would notice us, they would not be able to tell us from Muggles. We have complete obscurity, in short. Add to that the number of people – staff _and_ students – who may contribute to warding the area, and I imagine we are safer here than we would be anywhere else."

"But we have no ward stones," Professor Sprout protested. "It would take at least a day to find a good set and adjust them to the location."

"We don't need them, Ponoma!" Professor Flitwick squeaked. "We can group-cast a large shield, and sleep in turns to keep it active. I'll get all the N.E.W.T. students in the Charms and Defense classes to join in! It will only be needed for one or two days at most, until things calm down enough that the children can safely go home. We'll put on some Notice-Me-Not, large-scale Protego, Muggle repelling, maybe Disillusionment..."

"Wait," Harry cut in. "Would this be the kind of thing that causes an empty patch on a photograph, or not being able to look down from a plane, or maybe people arriving somewhere they weren't intending to go? Because I'm pretty sure that that will also draw the wrong kind of attention."

Flitwick nodded. "You are right of course, we should avoid such issues. I'll take care of it."

"And what about dark wizards? We're all focusing on Muggles right now, but should we be afraid for any Death Eater activity while we're here?"

"Since many of the Death Eaters have children at Hogwarts," Professor Snape said impatiently, "I'm going to guess they would prefer not to endanger them."

"Right, I guess we have a plan then!" Flitwick got up, and started calling out for his N.E.W.T. students. With some final words, Professor McGonagall ended the meeting and the other teachers and Michael got up and dispersed. Harry, however, stayed put. There was little he could do to help, and he had a few things to think about.

_What about Professor Quirr– Voldemort?_ he wondered.

_I vote that we just call him Tom Riddle from now on,_ Ravenclaw suggested. _It is more comfortable than the word 'Voldemort', more convenient than 'You-Know-Who' and, unlike 'Professor Quirrell', may actually refer to the original person rather than a front._

_Fine, fine,_ Harry thought, _Riddle. Shouldn't we be worrying about what he's doing?_

_I am going to put forward the opinion that he caused this,_ Slytherin suggested. _It's a little too convenient that not only did the husband of a witch find out about the bomb in time to get a warning off, the attack also took place at dinnertime, when it was very easy to get everyone out of Hogwarts because almost the entire school was collected in the Great Hall._

_In that case,_ Hufflepuff said ponderously, _he never wanted to kill any of us. He's just making a point about nuclear weapons._

_And royally biasing everyone against Muggles in the process,_ Slytherin added grimly. _The destruction of Hogwarts will be a powerful rallying point. And we already know he probably doesn't want to kill us – we're going to have to rule the country, remember?  
_

_This may mean that we're in no danger from him, at the moment,_ Ravenclaw said thoughtfully. _And by extension, the other students are safe because they're near us. __But I would not assign this a greater than eighty percent probability. Then again, if he _wants_ to harm the students, he could probably succeed no matter what we do._

"Harry?" A voice to his side asked. "What are you thinking about?"

Harry turned his head to see Hermione, still sitting next to him. "Just considering what might be going on. I'm not sure how much danger we're in, here."

"Well, is there anything we could do to be in less danger?"

Harry looked grim. "That's what I'm trying to figure out."

* * *

In the end, Harry simply decided to keep watch. He could push himself to stay awake until 4am, go back in time six hours, sleep under the invisibility cloak Dumbledore had given him, and then stay awake for the rest of the night. If Tom Riddle came near, Harry would know by the feeling of Doom. It wasn't much of a protection, and he'd be a little sleep-deprived, but he felt better for guarding the students all the same.

First, however, he needed to discuss with his parents.

He found the both of them with a group of students playing _Hints_. "Mum, Dad, can I talk to you in private for a bit?"

They immediately followed him. "What's wrong, Harry?"

Harry cast a silencing barrier. "I don't know how safe the two of you are here. I had you brought to Hogwarts because it was pretty well protected, but what Flitwick and the older years are setting up here doesn't come anywhere close. It may be better if the two of you _actually_ go to Canada."

"No." Surprisingly, it was Mum who answered. "We're needed here, Harry."

Harry blinked. "How so? What can you do?"

"We can distract the children. Keep them from panicking – a lot of them were very restless before I got them all playing games. Most of your schoolmates are really upset, and your teachers don't have the time to comfort them, or to keep them busy."

"And what is more," Dad added, "all these children have just been attacked by Muggles. Many have lost everything they had. Add that to the way we have been portrayed in that strange newspaper in the last few days... I would say the most important thing we can do right now is to stop that seed of hatred from taking root. Show them that Muggles are just like them, like your mother has been doing by being her usual loving self." He fondly wrapped an arm around his wife's waist.

Harry hesitated. His parents were right, they _could_ do a lot of good here, but...

"Staying here might _really_ be dangerous, though. We're in the middle of a war where all three sides may have it in for you."

Dad frowned. "If that's really true, are you planning to come with us?"

"No," Harry slumped. "I'm needed here."

Mum snorted. Dad nodded. "Then we're staying. Don't worry so much, Harry. I would say the adults have it in hand. Your teachers made a good case that it's safer here than anywhere else."

_Only if you can Apparate._ But it _was_ probably true that being near Harry was a protection in itself, and so was being near Hermione, as she would be able to take care of most emergency evacuations and would not discriminate against Muggles. "All right, then."

He left his parents behind and went to find Hermione, and then to have some words with Professor Flitwick.

* * *

With a burst of flame, Hermione appeared on Platform Nine and Three Quarters.

She looked around. No evidence of Muggles nearby. Perfect.

The platform would certainly fit all the students, and since it existed in an extended magical space could not possibly be seen from satellite photos. There were weaknesses, certainly – most importantly, the barrier that separated the platform from the rest of King's Cross Station. The magic that allowed interaction with the mundane world was rooted in the barrier; it it should be destroyed, then at the very least the Air-Freshening Charms would cease working, meaning a slow suffocation for all within, while the space itself contracted until nothing remained. But that only made it a bad _long-term_ solution. If another emergency evacuation should be necessary, the platform seemed like a pretty good bet to hide for a few hours, safely away from Muggle eyes and still inside the country, so Apparition would not be an issue.

She gave herself a little nod, and went to check the home ground of a native (and now mostly dead) tribe in the Amazon as a second backup location.

* * *

Magical lanterns were conjured and hung between the trees, the last pieces of dinner eaten. The foliage overhead was enchanted to merely look thick and dark, so no passing airplanes would see anything unusual. Insects and small animals were dispelled to the edge of the ward line, which Flitwick himself drew up: a golden circle that surrounded the camp site, the basis to build heavier wards on top of. Most of the staff and the older students joined in, adding layer upon layer of protection to the wards, and setting a line of Muggle repelling charms ten meters away from the main wards. The group shielding was a work of art, with teachers awarding House points to those N.E.W.T. students adding the best protections to the shared project. Many of the younger students watched; others passed the time holding small duels or playing games with each other. The atmosphere grew a bit more relaxed; whatever may have happened to Hogwarts, everyone here was still alive, and safe.

Finally, sleeping bags were conjured, the lights extinguished, and students and staff prepared for the night. Harry sat himself down by the large tree he had selected for his later self to sleep underneath, and watched the older students who guarded the wards, staying awake to maintain the shield. Every half hour, he invisibly walked around the ward line, watching, listening.

It was well past midnight when they came.

* * *

Filius Flitwick was roused by a hand on his shoulder and a whispered voice. "Professor, I think there's people nearby."

"You don't need to whisper," Harry Potter's voice spoke impatiently nearby. "We're behind a one-way silencing barrier, remember? And is there any reason why we wouldn't want to wake everyone up?"

Filius was already wide awake and casting a number of sense-improvement charms: augmented listening, dark vision, far sight. He shushed his students and turned his senses outwards. There were people there – many! They were dressed in dark clothes, many with hoods, and carrying items Filius did not recognize.

_"Where are they?" A man asked in a low voice._

_"Invisible no doubt," another voice sneered. "Try checking whether there's stuff you _don't _see."_

_"Hey, look over there!"_

Squinting to see even with his magically improved eyesight, Filius found what the men had seen and his breath choked. Beneath the moonlight glinted a tiny fragment of silver, a fraction of a line; a small part of the foundation of the Muggle repelling wards which had not been cast carefully, and had been overlooked by the warding group.

_"Oh yes, we're at the right place all right!"_

Filius muted his extra senses and turned to his anxious students. "They're looking for us."

This was bad. The outer warding circle, since it was the largest and furthest away from the people maintaining its magic, was very light. It would have kept unsuspecting Muggles from coming too near the campsite, but unfortunately it did not seem like the word _unsuspecting_ applied to these people.

"WAKE UP EVERYONE," Harry Potter's _Sonorus_-strengthened voice reverberated over the campsite. "HAVE YOUR WAND READY. BUT _STAY PUT."_

"Do you _want_ everyone panicking?" A sixth-year student nearby snapped at him as people all around jolted awake and questions of "_what?_" and fearful crying sounded everywhere.

Harry Potter just shrugged. "I want them to be prepared."

Filius wasn't going to spend time on the argument. "Sixth and Seventh Years!" He shouted in a tone of command. "Reinforce the wards!"

He focused his hearing outwards again.

_"I... How did I... Where am I..."_

_"They've done something here to confuse you, and make you want to go away. Chill."_

_Whamm!_ An explosive of some kind had been thrown and gone right through the Muggle repellers, landing on the forest ground and lighting up the area in a burst of flame. Filius yelped and canceled the hearing charms, then quickly healed his ears. The explosive hadn't hit the wards – the ten meter distance _had_ been a very good idea, even if it did cost more magical energy to maintain it like that – but nearby, several young children started crying loudly.

"Miss Granger," Professor McGonagall spoke clearly, over the terrified sounds from the students. "You have checked out alternative areas for evacuation, haven't you?"

"Yes Professor," Hermione Granger said from somewhere nearby. "Platform Nine and Three Quarters should work pretty well."

"Go check it out. Children, group up. Young children together, I want you out first. Older students, do _not_ abandon the shield. We should have plenty of time to get everyone out of here."

_Boom!_ _Crash!_

The smell of petrol filled the air and smoke pricked his eyes, even as the fire sizzled out quickly. Some of the Muggles had managed to hit the shield with some kind of fireworks. They might not be able to look directly at their target due to the Notice-Me-Not enchantments, but they could figure out roughly what the line was that they couldn't pass, and simply aim right ahead from there. The campsite was large enough to be hit by such a strategy. But Minerva was right; their shield was powerful, the Muggle weapons nowhere near strong enough. With this many people pouring their strength into the wards, nothing that wouldn't also kill all the Muggles around them had a chance of penetrating it. Magical attackers might have tried other tricks, but Muggle abilities were too limited, in variation if not in power.

Filius smiled confidently as he fed more magic into the shield.

* * *

With a burst of flame, Hermione appeared on Platform Nine and Three Quarters.

It took her a moment to register the human figures all around the platform, the soldier uniforms, and then it was already too late to react. She heard the blasts of gunshots even as she felt a sharp pain in her stomach, side and chest, and then someone cursed and another voice shouted "_stop!_"...

With a faint feeling of longing to just go _home_, she fell down on the stone ground, the pain starting to numb as the blood streamed out of her body and all sounds turned to a distant buzz. She didn't even feel the flames engulf her as she sank into darkness.

* * *

Explosions were coming from all directions. More and more Muggles were collecting just outside the edges of the wards, hundreds of them.

Harry was tensing up. _Where was Hermione?_ She was supposed to have been back in about ten seconds, but she'd been gone for several minutes now. The younger. students had been neatly divided into year-groups, each year split into two or three. That was one comfort: at least his army was near him. But the greater situation was getting more and more worrying. Harry wasn't sure whether he should be more anxious about what might be happening that could hold up Hermione or about the rest of them, but the simple fact was that the evacuation plans were all centered on Hermione and Xare. If for whatever reason they were inconvenienced, the students would have to use side-along Apparition, which was difficult because most of the people capable of doing that were needed to maintain the shield. Nor could they go after Hermione without at least a few powerful wizards available, and the teachers would probably prioritize the many over the one right now.

There was one obvious solution. _End it quickly._ Then they could get the hell out of here and launch a rescue mission, if Hermione still hadn't come back.

"Be ready," he said out loud. "You only need one hand to hold your neighbor by the shoulder. Keep your wand in the other. Pass the word, make sure everyone's prepared for battle, as long as they keep holding on to each other."

"Who died and made you the boss?" A second-year nearby asked.

"No one did," Harry said calmly. "But I don't think any of the teachers has ever led a battle. Those who fought in the last war all followed Dumbledore, and he's not here right now."

"Eh, I wouldn't be so worried," Ron muttered from somewhere nearby. "That shield's going to hold for a while."

"It costs you nothing to have your wand ready," Seamus snapped at him. "Are you thinking of something, Harry?"

"We can't just sit and wait while they whittle away at our wards," Harry answered. "They're bound to try something smarter sooner or later. We stop them before they do that."

Dean, who was also standing near him, frowned. "Do you know whether the shield lets our spells through?"

"Not right now," Harry shook his head. He had checked this with Flitwick some hours ago. The Charms Professor had explained that they were using a version of _Protego Maximus_, which protected from most kinds of attacks and spell fire, but was fully symmetric: anything that could go in, could go out. The students could make it so that _no_ spells were blocked, but this would leave the group exposed to hostile wizards. So Harry had suggested to use _two_ layers of _Protego_, one with protection from spells and the other without. "But Flitwick and the others can drop the layer that blocks spells, keeping us protected from anything Muggles can throw at us while we will be able to curse _them_ at leisure."

"Or we just use Killing Curses," a nearby Slytherin suggested. "I bet _they_ go through the shield."

That was, in fact, the first point Harry had thought about, but he wasn't going to mention that. "No. We don't want to give them an extra reason to start trying to kill us, and it would cost far more magical energy than a _Somnium_. I'm going to talk with the Professors. Just keep your wands out, okay? And see that everyone else knows that, too."

He struggled away from the mass of bodies and looked around for Professor Flitwick.

"Potter! Why are you not holding hands?"

Harry looked up in Professor McGonagall's face.

"Hermione hasn't returned, Professor," he said, ignoring the hot ball of fear in his chest at saying those words. "We have to end this, quickly. The attackers seem to be entirely non-magical; they have weapons but no defenses. We should be able to take them all down in five minutes without any casualties. We can drop the spell-ward and mass-_Somnium_ the lot."

Professor Flitwick came hurrying over, apparently having overheard the conversation. "I was just thinking it might be best to go on the offense, Mr. Potter! Massed spell fire will not hit all the attackers, but it will make them more hesitant to come close, I think."

"We don't even need to hit many," Harry shrugged. "Just leave them there long enough that their friends can see that they're still alive. Then summon some of the bodies. That should stop the others from throwing more explosives, as they would hit their friends before they would hurt us. And _then_ we can nego..ti..ate..." He trailed off, suddenly realizing that the sound of explosions had stopped.

In the distance, outside the wards, a single man had managed to pass through the Muggle-repelling barrier; thrown, apparently, by three tall men behind him. The man's frantic scream cut off as they turned to look at him, and he shook, but composed himself, and scrambled up from the ground. A tall, muscular man, he looked imposing as he spoke: "Come forward, then, if you're hiding there."

A complete silence was his only response. Even inside the wards, conversation stopped as everyone turned to listen to the man.

"You murder our people," the man spoke with a passionate hatred in his voice. "You corrupt our leaders. You torture and mutilate our children. This is going to end _tonight_!"

"Filius, if this goes wrong, you're in charge," Professor McGonagall said quietly.

"Wha-"

With a *crack* of Apparition, Professor McGonagall disappeared, and reappeared outside the wards.

"Ah," the man sneered, "at last you dare to show your face."

"Your anger is misplaced, sir," Professor McGonagall said feelingly, "There is no one here but seven hundred school children and a handful of teachers. We were forced to evacuate when our school was bombed. We mean you no harm."

"Children?" The man repeated incredulously, even as a few of the distant shadows stirred. "So your kind starts young, too? What did they teach in that school of yours, murder and torture?"

"Disable the Disillusionment and the Notice-Me-Not," Professor Flitwick commanded. "They are managing to target us anyway. Try not to look too combat-ready, everyone."

With a ripple in the air, the dome became visible. Several people behind the Muggle-repelling line jumped in shock.

"_Bulbali_", McGonagall cast, shooting three bulbs of light in the air, which stayed there. The bulbs lit up the area, casting Muggle and Magical in a white light so all could see the students clearly.

"_Children_," she repeated. "No, we don't teach them to murder or torture. They learn to make healing draughts, for example, or transfiguring one object into another, or charms to move items they cannot carry."

"Those are supposed to be _children_?" The man snorted. "They look like they're about to shoot us. And we all know that your kind can look like whatever they _want_ to look like!"

"You are seeing only what you _want_ to see," Professor McGonagall said sharply. "These _are_ children, almost _all_ the magical children between eleven and seventeen in our country. They're our hope for a better future!"

"No," the man bit. "They're our future enemies. _If_ those are real children, which is a big if, they're just the next generation of our enemies." He turned to the people behind him. "Don't you see the murder in their eyes? Those supposed _children_ are little monsters, set to grow up just like their parents! I say kill them before they get the chance!"

There was cheering and roaring behind him, and all around the now-visible campsite, but Harry thought he also saw quite a few people shifting. Not everyone was comfortable fighting children, and not all of those people could make themselves believe that the students were only _pretending_ to be children. But there were many who still looked eager, their faces now lit up by the glowing orbs, looking out over the children; many cheering, egging each other on. Too many. The children _did_ look battle-ready, Harry supposed. There hadn't been enough time from McGonagall's snap-decision to try talking to the Muggles to get all the students looking terrified and maybe crying. But the Muggles were also riled up, mob-spirit overriding rational thought.

"We are not your enemies!" Professor McGonagall exclaimed. "_Some_ witches and wizards do evil, yes, but that's just the worst of us, just like the worst Muggles hurt other people. _Most_ of us are not like that, _most_ of us just want peace. Magic is so much more than what you've seen! It can be used for so much good!"

"And yet you don't!" The man yelled. He was beyond reason. "Where are the wizards protecting people? Where are the healers? If magic can be used for that, it's all the more unforgivable that you just kill and maim and torture!"

"Drop the first _Protego_ layer," Professor Flitwick commanded behind the wards. "Be ready everyone. Just don't let them see you casting, and _do not_ attack until I say so."

"We are not all like that!" Professor McGonagall exclaimed again. "Our people _can_ live together, we do not need to fight!"

The man smiled humorlessly. "Oh, but we do. You see, we have no intention of letting your kind rule over us." With that, he pulled a grenade from his pocket, tore out the pin, and threw it at her. Her wand flicked upwards and the explosive flew into the air, away from humans, where it exploded harmlessly. But the action left her open and in that same moment, three more bottles were flung at her from the distant repelling line, and slammed into the woman even as Harry – standing right behind her inside the wards – yelled an inaudible warning.

Flames exploded around her body, reaching high like a bonfire before she collapsed, because she had not shielded up before leaving the wards. Harry looked up in shock as the man pulled a gun and shot repeatedly at the burning body to make sure she was really dead.

"Take this as a warning," the man yelled, not quite in the right direction. "You are _not_ undefeatable, and we will not accept your superiority!"

Harry just stared at him, and at the people behind him, still bathed in light from the bulbs which had been Minerva McGonagall's last magic. The man was shouting something more, and Flitwick was yelling to reactivate the Disillusionment, but it passed Harry by as he looked at the mass of people in a wave of disbelief. And in that moment, finally watching the people closely in full light, he noticed that many of them were holding the same peculiar shapes in their hands. He squinted, and his heart sank when he saw what the items were.

Gas masks.

In a rush of insight he realized that while the smoke from the Molotov Cocktails, grenades and fireworks that still clung to the air hadn't penetrated deeply into the camp site, it _had_ managed to pass through the wards, and that the Muggles would have seen that when the Disillusionment was lifted. And he realized that he could smell gasoline and burning, even though all the explosions had happened outside the wards. The shield blocked objects and probably liquids, but it was clearly permeable to gases.

"Bubbleheads!" He screamed, at the same time the man yelled "_Now!"_. His wand snapped up. "_Sonorus__!_ CAST BUBBLEHEADS! _Bublio!_" Behind the speaker, people jumped into motion and sudden blasts rang through the night sky.

* * *

Hermione woke up with the taste of blood in her mouth. She felt a little faint, but not hurt. She was lying on something hard and wet... the floor?

She opened her eyes and the world spun a moment, but there was Xare, sitting on her chest, her eyes looking wet. The bird gave a soft _caw_ and fluttered up.

_Where am I?_

She sat up and looked around, thoughts coming sluggishly at first. Was this... her parents' house? How had she got here?

_The platform... The soldiers..._ As memory returned slowly, she felt queasy. She was sure she had been _very_ close to death. Xare must have taken her to safety, healed her...

_The forest!_ How long had she been unconscious? The clock said it was five past two, but what time had it been when she left?

With a jump, Hermione was on her feet, Xare on her arm in the same instant. _Get us back!_

* * *

Almost none of the older years got the Bubblehead Charm off before the tear gas grenades hit.

Harry watched, helpless to do anything, as the shield just _evaporated_, the people maintaining it no longer able to concentrate as they were doubling over, coughing, choking. The next volley of tear gas grenades fell all over the camp site, where maybe one in ten of the remaining students had managed to cast a Bubblehead Charm, and then another rain of explosives hit, this time _not_ blocked. "_Prismatis!_"

The timely prismatic wall took the hit, but Harry was flung to the ground by the impact, the breath knocked from his body. Dizzy for some moments, he finally lifted his head from the ground to look at what was happening around him.

The sight that met his eyes was one he would never forget.

Broken bodies were scattered across the ground. How many were merely unconscious, how many had died? Wizards and witches could take more than Muggles, their bodies' natural magic preventing the worst injuries, but there were limits, even with purely mundane damage. Men (and women?) in gas masks ran through the chaos; the Muggle repelling line must have fallen along with the rest. Some had brought guns and were firing at the many wounded, others were throwing explosives. Children were screaming in pain, others merely flailing around on the ground, coughing and choking. Others were still up, Bubblehead Charms active. surrounded by _Protego_ shields or Prismatic Spheres. There was a glimpse of golden fire in the distance – Hermione? Curses were flying around, the attackers falling where they stood, but they were too many. It was the chaos of battle, as half the school had been training for for most of the year, but this time it was lethal, and not everyone had been part of an army. Children, their black robes charred or burning, were falling, or blasted away by all kinds of explosives. Fires were spreading from tree to tree, burning those who had been knocked out, or who were too heavily wounded to move. Blood spilled out in liters, and in the distance someone screamed a word:

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

The small part of Harry that wasn't screaming at the sight realized that the attackers were never going to survive this. They didn't know what they were dealing with, so they had made assumptions and stupidly thought that they could win an actual battle against an unknown foe, where the other side had magic. Too many of the older students already wore bubbleheads, and they had shields that could withstand anything that wouldn't also kill the people nearby, and Professor Quirrell had taught them the Killing Curse, and they had seen their friends die in front of their eyes and could _easily_ summon up the hatred required...

_Do these people deserve to die?_

Harry honestly didn't know. These were child-murderers and bigoted vigilantes proud in their ignorance, but they were also fathers and brothers who were frightened and might believe that they were just doing what was necessary. One thing was certain, though. If this massacre ended with all the attacking Muggles dead, it would become very hard to achieve peace.

He jumped up.

"_Sonorus!_ DO NOT KILL THEM! IT WILL ONLY MAKE THINGS WORSE! ARMIES, WORK TOGETHER! USE BUBBLE-HEADS! _Finite._"

There was a moment where the curses stopped, and Muggle heads turned to look around for the source of the sound. And then other voices went up in the brief silence.

"_Pinini Army, to me!_"

"_Mighty Bulls!_"

"_Gryffindors, protect the fallen!_"

"_Expecto Patronum!_"

"_Hetero Protego!_"

A shimmering blue sphere appeared around Harry just as another explosion hit, and he was thrown backwards, saved only by the powerful shield some anonymous student had cast on him at the last moment. His body hurt like hell – had he broken bones in his back? – and he didn't think he could stand up anymore, so he just kept lying there. _Just a few moments._ There were more screams around, he heard, more choking and gasping, still more explosions. But there were also curses, and there was co-ordination. Children were working together with each other now, applying everything Professor Quirrell had taught them...

The shimmering blue shield disappeared – had the other student dropped it, or been incapacitated? It didn't matter, he couldn't keep lying there in the middle of a battle. Carefully, he sat up, and grasped his wand for another _Prismatis_.

A hand grabbed Harry and yanked his head hard against the tree behind him, snapping the bubble. His wand was wrested from his hand, and a gun put against his forehead. In his last second, Harry stared into a pair of blue eyes, full of hatred...

The man collapsed. Petunia Evans-Verres was standing behind the man with a thick branch in her hands. And there was another gunshot, and she gasped, and fell heavily on the ground as blood burst from her chest, and there wasn't time to _do_ anything, only a wish that _this wasn't happening_...

But this time, Harry had no Patronus to protect him, or the people he loved.

Another gunshot cracked, and the masked man who had shot at them fell over.

The normally-so-dignified Professor Verres-Evans, his clothes torn and splattered with blood threw the gun away, and limped towards his wife and child. "Petunia!"

Suddenly, a golden light filled the forest, and a _will_ of some kind pressed down on Harry. The screams cut off abruptly, and everything froze. Father's progress stopped. The student running past Harry halted in mid-bounce.

_Dumbledore._

A shrill and wonderful sound pierced the forest, as the phoenix sang its battle cry, and as the masked men fell to the ground in a surge of power, the fires went out, and the golden light crept over the ground, surrounded defenders and attackers alike, healing their wounds where it passed.

He really was the most powerful wizard in the world.

But time had slowed down, not stopped. Harry couldn't move his head, couldn't yell, couldn't cast any spell, as he watched his mother die in slow-motion.

Blood fell from her chest and mouth, at a speed of one meter per minute.

Her eyes started to widen. Her mouth started to open.

And then the golden light reached her and enveloped her; her chest healed, the bullet that hit her dropped to the ground.

But it was already too late. Her eyes continued to widen, her mouth continued to gasp, and then time resumed. A small shock ran through her body and she exhaled, just as Harry could finally move again and half-jumped half-fell to her side.

"No, Mum, please don't."

There was a small ripple of _something_ in the air, a feeling of care and worry, of curiosity and frustration, silly giggles and gossiping and an immense amount of love, of all that she was; a ripple that was soft and almost inaudible and yet too vast to be understood, and it faded before Harry could get a grasp on it, as the light in her eyes dimmed.

_No..._

Michael Verres-Evans knelt down beside him, his face screwed up in agony, as he put his hand on his wife's neck. He hadn't felt it, like Harry had, but he had seen it happen.

"Please tell me magic can undo this." His voice choked.

"There is no magic that can bring back the dead," Harry intoned hollowly. "Yet."

"Maybe science can..." Michael turned his tear-streaked face to Harry. "Her brain wasn't hit, if we can get a doctor to her _now_..."

"We can't." Even if he found Hermione, and got her to use Xare to move Mum into an emergency room on the spot, the enmity between Muggles and wizards would mean that she was more likely to be attacked there than helped. "But I can do _this_." He grabbed his wand from where it still lay on the ground, leveled it at the body, and poured _everything_ down his arm into his hand...

"_Frigideiro!_"

"Hypothermia?" Professor Verres breathed as Petunia's body cooled down. "Can you get it to 5 degrees exactly?"

Harry nodded. It'd been one of the spells he and Hermione had experimented on, a lifetime ago, so he was able to control it exactly. The cold would protect her from brain damage. "But I'm not sure what chance a doctor would have, even if we got her to one before she warms up."

Father hadn't felt it, the outpouring of _something_ as she died. But Harry had.

_There's something more to dying than your brain not working anymore._

"But I'll find some way of using magic to do it." He was half-speaking to himself.

"You just said that there was no magic to bring back the dead." Tears were streaking father's face.

"_Yet._"

"Harry, you're _eleven_."

"Maybe. But I'm not going to let that stop me." Harry looked into his father's eyes, his gaze turning cold. "I already did two things believed impossible, this year. I will do this too. I swear. On everything I hold sacred, I swear, I will challenge Death and take back Mum, and my other parents too, and Professor McGonagall, and the people who died on Monday... _Everyone."_

He expected father to protest, with all the usual _too young_ and _Petunia would not have wanted you_ nonsense. But the professor just shook his head sadly, and looked down at his wife's body.

"It was your voice, wasn't it?" He asked a while later. "Shouting not to kill them?"

Harry just nodded.

"And I did kill." His voice sounded pained, now, and he stared at his hands. "I'm sorry. I can't even believe I did that. If you'd asked me yesterday whether I would ever... But when I saw that man shoot at you and Petunia..."

Harry said nothing. He just hugged his father long and hard.

"You're not a child anymore." It wasn't a question, just an observation. "I don't know whether you've gone into puberty or just skipped it, but you're not who you were before. You're taking command, deciding on other people's lives. And people listen. What happened to you?"

"I grew up," Harry said simply.

They sat in silence, waiting for whatever might come next.

* * *

With a flash of phoenix fire, Dumbledore appeared by their side. He looked older than Harry had ever seen him. It took the man only a moment to take in the sight of Petunia's body, and he choked back a pained groan.

"Headmaster," Harry said icily. "Where were you, when a bomb was about to hit the school and the children in your care had to be evacuated? And where were you when a mob of crazy Muggles attacked them?"

"Later," the Headmaster bit. "Dr. Verres, can I take you elsewhere? I have no capacity to protect you better here than in another place, and I fear for what the survivors may do when they realize that there is still a Muggle among them."

"A hospital would be good," Michael Verres-Evans grunted. "She's still 5 degrees, isn't she, Harry?"

Harry nodded. He had been regularly reinforcing the _Frigideiro_. His father gently took the body of his wife in his arms.

"Not Britain," Harry urged. "Not anywhere where You-Know-Who would find him. Go to a dark alley or something, don't let them see you phoenix in."

"I am not a fool," Dumbledore answered harshly. "I think I have seen a bit more of war than you have, young Ravenclaw, even counting the last week."

Harry nodded. "I had to be sure."

"You're not coming?" his father asked.

"No dad, going into the Muggle world would be _suicide_, even if it's not Britain. It'll be hard enough for you to explain what happened without fearing that they'll attack me. But we _will_ see each other again. I promise."

"I love you, son..."

Then Dumbledore reached out for his arm and the two of them disappeared with a flash of fire.

* * *

Harry found Hermione and Neville together, mourning over the corpse of Hannah Abbott. The girl, apparently, had bubbled up in time, but then jumped into a fight with two of the Muggles as they were shooting at children still blinded by the tear gas.

Ron Weasley had died in a similar way, as had several other Gryffindors; too brave to stay behind and hide and leave the older students with fully functional _Protego_ shields to protect the unconscious and blinded and sneezing students. Undoubtedly, the outcome was better because they had fought. Su had lived, because Neville had pulled her out of a fire. Cho Chang, the second-year seeker, had managed to drag herself away when Ron engaged the Muggles throwing Molotov Cocktails in her direction. Several students had been saved by Parvati's use of _Aguamenti_ on any burning bodies she saw. The heroic students had saved many who would otherwise not have lived. But the price had been really, really high.

The battle had lasted not five minutes, but in that time, about 80 of the approximately 700 Hogwarts students had died, and two members of staff: Professor McGonagall and Professor Vector. Most of the dead students had died in the first minute of the battle, when explosives rained down just as the shield had fallen. Many had been wounded, but they lived, and would soon be well again; between two Phoenixes and magical healing, gun wounds and third-degree burns were almost trivial.

Ernie MacMillan had died. Zacharias Smith. Pansy Parkinson. Michael Corner. Ron Weasley. Hannah Abbot. Roderick Murphy. Fay Dunbar. Kate Olney. Nitin Divekar. Mildred Peebles. Terry Boot. And those were just the ones from Harry's year.

Harry fought back his tears. To cry was to give up, and he wasn't going to give up. He had promised the Demented on Monday that he would find a way, and he'd promised his father today, and he _would_. He would bring them all back, no matter how. Hermione hadn't frozen Hannah, and Harry had been in too much shock to think about doing it for any other casualties than his mother before it was too late, but given the impossibility to sustain the temperature for long, and the expected lack of co-operation from the families, that wasn't likely to have helped regardless. There would just have to be another way.

He sat himself down by Hermione and Neville in silence, but he didn't mourn. He thought.

* * *

"It's my fault," Hermione whispered eventually.

Harry just looked at her. "No more than it is mine."

"What are you talking about?" Neville protested. "If you hadn't dragged all those unconscious children to your parents' house it would have been _far_ worse!"

"I was _responsible_," she said with a choke. "If only I hadn't been too preoccupied with escape to consider that we might have to fight! If only I'd protested when Professor McGonagall said that the most vulnerable children should be together, rather than mixed with the stronger students – I'm an army general, I should have realized that that was a lethal mistake! If only I'd thought to send my Patronus to Professor Dumbledore straight away. How could I not have thought of that? If only I'd reacted a little sooner to those soldiers, or gone to the Amazon _first_..."

Harry just threw an arm around her, and held her tight as she sniffled on his shoulder. He couldn't say that she shouldn't blame herself, because it would be unfair to deny her the guilt that he assigned to himself as well. But they could at least give other some comfort.


	25. Chapter 105: The Philosopher's Stone

**CHAPTER 105: THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE**

* * *

_It's all my fault._

_Not _all, Slytherin corrected. _I daresay there are some other people who can claim a share of the blame._

_This is_ my_ war, these are _my_ friends. I should have protected them._

_We will,_ Gryffindor promised. _We will find a way to bring them back._

_Even if that is true, it may well take centuries. They will not understand the world they live in, or even know their friends or families anymore. Whatever else may happen, I have failed today._

Why hadn't he thought about tear gas and smoke bombs in time? He of all people should have realized the possibility! Why hadn't he stopped Professor McGonagall before she did something so utterly _Gryffindor_ as leaving the wards? Why had he allowed his parents to stay, rather than forcefully evacuating them? Why hadn't he sent for Dumbledore immediately when the attackers came, or at least when Hermione wasn't returning? And why oh why had he not insisted that they all go abroad, Apparition-possibilities or not, over staying inside hostile territory?

With a burst of flame, another wizard appeared. Harry pushed his grief and self-reproof away and rotated in another side of himself. He needed his composure for this confrontation.

"I have taken him to Australia," Dumbledore answered his questioning look. "I will not say where, not out loud. I have arranged a new identity for him and your mother, and enough money for a single man to live in hiding for several months. I have also brought her body back to a normal temperature, since leaving her as she was would arouse suspicion. Instead, I have placed her under an anti-decomposition charm at your father's insistence."

"Will that not stop her from being revitalized?" Harry queried with a frown.

The Headmaster shook his head. "In the highly unlikely event that doctors could help her, I do not believe the charm would make any difference. This is an advanced spell for certain magical experiments, developed by a friend of mine. It can be used on living creatures without issue; it merely remains inactive, and wears off after a few minutes, if it covers someone with an active heartbeat."

"Thank you," Harry said quietly. "And now, will you explain what's been going on?"

"I am afraid that the night's events are not yet fully clear, although I hope that in time, they shall be. Nevertheless, there are some things I would discuss with you. Come with me."

With a flash of fire, the two of them arrived in a small stone room, with a handsome wooden desk and a comfortable chair behind it. The floor was cluttered with stuff, piled high. With a wave of Dumbledore's wand, a second chair appeared, but Harry did not sit down.

"Where are we?"

"The Chief Warlock's Chambers. These rooms are so well-protected that there is little chance that they will be penetrated by Muggles."

Harry was almost speechless with indignation. "You shouldn't leave the forest! What if there's another attack while you're gone?"

"I am there right now, Harry. We have nearly fifty minutes before the younger me goes back in time to send your father to safety."

_Oh. Right._

"Very well, then." His eyes turned cold. "Will you tell me where you were, when the children in _your care_ needed to be evacuated? How could you dump all that on Hermione?"

"Hermione Granger was entirely capable of saving both children and staff." His eyes gleamed darkly, his voice was hard. "It is not my duty to patronize other heroes. I will protect those who need it, and I knew that my help was not needed there."

Harry looked at the clutter. There were many things there he recognized from previous visits to the Headmaster's office. Portraits. A Pensieve. The sorting hat.

"Those who need it?" He almost yelled it. "You left the children alone to save _things_?"

"My first stop were the kitchens, in fact." The Headmaster sat down. "The House Elves are as much my responsibility as the children, and they are incapable of leaving the castle without being commanded to do so. Having sent them away, I went back in time two hours to make my preparations. I disabled all the wards that would warn me of student injury or death. I set up new wards that would inform me of the location and time of any impact around Hogwarts and Hogsmeade. I warned Amelia to do the same for other locations, as Hogwarts might not have been the only target _–_ which, as it turns out, it wasn't. Then, as I knew that an atomic bomb could destroy the wards along with all the protections wired into them, I went to recover the one thing which should _never_ fall into Voldemort's hands."

"The dark wizard attractant that you were keeping as a lure to You-Know-Who?" Harry couldn't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice.

"Yes. After that, I had a little time remaining, which I used it to save all those things entrusted to my care which would be irreplaceable if lost. Your cloak, for instance." He grabbed something from behind the desk and handed it to Harry. "You might as well keep it with you now. Everyone who believes you had it will think it was destroyed along with the school."

The tone of voice put Harry's hairs on end. "What exactly happened to the school?"

The old wizard just shook his head sadly. "As I had feared, they did use atomic bombs. All that's left of the castle are smoking ruins now. And with today's magic, we will never be able to rebuild it."

Something in Harry's heart ached. He thought he'd been numb with the pain of the many deaths of the night, and it was only a castle, not a human, but the loss still filled him with a deep sadness for something precious lost, a part of the world permanently gone.

"But..." he protested. "If you had already gone back in time and made preparations, couldn't you _stop_..."

"No." The Headmaster looked very grave. "I tried, of course. I do not know much about machine-driven missiles, but I managed to detect an incoming object approaching Hogsmeade at an extremely high speed, and, with the help of a reflex-improving charm, succeeded in spiriting it away to a place where it could do little harm. Unfortunately, as my wards were quick to inform me, there was a second missile, striking not a minute later."

Harry swallowed, as he realized the pain the old man must have felt the instant he realized his mistake.

"I noted down the time," the old wizard continued hollowly, "gave what instructions and comfort I could to those fools who had stayed behind in Hogsmeade, and went back another hour. The impact hit the castle directly, probably because it's at the center of the warded area. I have experienced the impact of atomic bombs before, so I knew that the building could not be saved, no matter what protections I placed upon it. Hence I did not waste any time attempting it. Instead, I went into the grounds and cast what spells I could that might at least save the lake and the forest, and thereby the merfolk, centaurs and other creatures who live there. I went back only to restore some of Hogwarts's treasures which I had no time to take earlier, such as those books in the library of which no copy exists. I was in the forest to witness the destruction as the second bomb fell on the castle."

His eyes were so unspeakably sad that Harry shivered. He had only been at Hogwarts for less than a year, and he felt the grief. To Professor Dumbledore, whose long life had largely been centered in Hogwarts _–_ as a student, teacher and finally Headmaster _–_ it must be tremendous.

"So why didn't you come to us then?" he asked. There was no indignation in his voice anymore, his anger had been dampened by the old man's sadness. "Where were you when we were attacked?"

"No one told me where you had gone, Harry," he pointed out. "I admit that I could have found out, but I had no idea that I might be needed until Cedric Diggory's Patronus alarmed me to your predicament." He sighed deeply. "As it was, I was going between what remained of Hogwarts, the Ministry, and several foreign institutions. Most importantly, I've been making emergency arrangements for the House Elves and the creatures living on our grounds. The Elves will remain at Beauxbatons, for the time being. The merfolk and squid will be relocated to a lake in Bulgaria before the radiation affects them too much. The forest dwellers are a larger problem, however. Without the castle's wards, the grounds are no longer protected and Muggles could stray into them _–_ and what is worse, dangerous magical creatures can go out. The last thing we need is for Hagrid's herd of Acromantulas to invade Scotland, although it seems that Hagrid has _them_ under control, at least _–_ he sent a gathering signal to all of the herd and helped them flee to the edges of the wards, so, for now, they are staying by his side. As for the Hippogriffs, Thestrals, Blood-Sucking Bugbears, bowtruckles, Cornish pixies and other creatures... let us say that a speedy relocation is of the utmost importance."

"I see." The centaurs were sentient magical creatures, he knew, proud and independent; not equipped with wands, but adept at poisons. Muggles, afraid of magic, might well try to exterminate the herd. He didn't know much about the merfolk, but from what he _had_ heard, they might well be sentient. There were also said to be highly intelligent wolves, offspring from two transformed werewolves. If you let go of the bias that humans should always be the first priority, then the Headmaster's choice to save the inhabitants of the forest over helping with the evacuation could not be condemned, even without taking into account the risks posed by dangerous creatures.

But he _hadn't_ gone straight to save the centaurs and the merfolk. He had gone for this dark item and saved "Hogwarts's treasures" first; he hadn't even gone to the forest until _after_ he learned that the school would be destroyed.

"How could you wait so long?" he asked, anger seeping back in his voice. "What if you had found that you couldn't go back in time after the impact? What if you failed to stop the first bomb and got yourself killed? You prioritized saving books and portraits and a _Sorting Hat_ over the forest creatures. Did their lives mean so little to you?"

"Their lives meant everything." The voice was ice-cold, now. "But I could not risk being delayed in the grounds. The chance of encountering a contradiction was minimal, as I did everything to avoid witnessing any consequences of a possible impact."

"And yet you went back for the library books rather than helping with the evacuation?"

"I was perfectly aware of the time the bomb would hit, and kept tabs on the number of people still in the school. I knew of the Weasley twins' map, and consequently had every reason to believe that Hermione Granger would not return once everyone was out. As such, I _knew_ as a matter of _fact_ that there was no need for my help. Now, will you sit down? And perhaps stop trying to relieve your own feelings by blaming me, so we can have a civil discussion instead?"

Harry paused. Then he sat down. "Fine. So what's the current status, then?"

The old wizard shrugged helplessly. "I know but a little. Nuclear bombs have fallen on Hogwarts and the British dragon resort, along with normal bombs on the national Quidditch league's competition stadium_._ All military facilities and army depots in the country have been opened up, and powerful weapons are freely handed out to civilians. Squib soldiers have managed to enter several places which are open to Squibs who know they are there, such as Platform Nine and Three Quarters and the Leaky Cauldron. They have managed to penetrate the wards into Diagon Alley, but have retreated since. Other large magical areas, such as the Ministry and St Mungo's, have not been attacked, but nearby Muggle buildings are being evacuated, which signals a strong intention to change that situation in the future. On the positive side, the timely warning allowed most witches, wizards and dragons to reach safety before any harm was done. Only the Hogwarts delegation was attacked afterwards."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. He'd known most of this already, but Professor McGonagall hadn't mentioned the stadium. "Was the Quidditch stadium destroyed? Or are ordinary wards good enough to hold out against non-atomic bombs?"

"The bomb took down the wards, but was sufficiently weakened that the stadium is only partially destroyed. I suspect they refrained from nuclear weaponry there either to test the effects of less destructive weaponry, or simply because the place was closer to inhabited areas than Hogwarts. That, or the people who did this have a greater personal stake in not offending the people of Wales than of Scotland."

"Dad said it probably wasn't the government who did it," Harry spoke quietly. "He suggested it might have been someone in the military."

"Someone not directly accountable to the public," Dumbledore nodded. "Or more likely, someone placed under the Imperius Curse, although I cannot think why Voldemort would do such a thing. Were today's events not exactly what you believed he was trying to avoid?"

"Not quite. He is trying to avoid nuclear _annihilation_," Harry explained. "A war on wizards, no matter how brutal, isn't going to cause that. What happened today was... horrible, to say the least, with children dying and an irreplaceable historical site just being flattened, and it will definitely cause a pretty powerful rage against all things Muggle and against nuclear weapons in particular, but wizards aren't going to respond by destroying the entire country. We still have to live here, after all."

The old wizard frowned. "After today, there will certainly be some of our kind who would not mind destroying the country and all those who live within. But in this, ability is more important than will: magic cannot easily achieve such a feat, and those powerful enough to wreak the greatest havoc will be the most hesitant to perform it."

"I see," Harry said. "And what about the men who attacked us? Have you interrogated them to see how they found us, and why they attacked us?"

"Alastor is interrogating them at the moment, although the first responses seem to indicate that they are merely normal people _–_ albeit aggressive and motivated by fear and hate of the unknown _–_ who were informed by acquaintances about a peculiar disturbance at a particular place in the forest of Dean. So far, it seems that the signal originates from a military base, which was also the source of many of the weapons, in particular the tear gas and gas masks, but it is not clear how _they_ found out. A group of Aurors and Unspeakables have gone back in time to see whether they can trace the source, for it is absolutely essential to understand how those vigilantes came to learn of your location. It is _possible_ that an eager Muggle saw Miss Granger arriving with the first group of students and notified their military, but it is _unlikely. _The forest is mostly void of humans and it would have meant an extraordinary stroke of bad luck to draw the attention of a person evil enough to drum up a mob after seeing a large number of _school children_ arrive. I suspect that this, too, was perpetrated by our old friend Voldemort, who carried the news and allowed events to take their natural course from there. If we can prove that much, it might quell the inevitable bout of fury towards Muggles that will break out nationally and internationally when our kind learn of tonight's bloodshed. I fear it will not be enough, however, for it is undeniable that the Muggles _did_ act of their own will."

Harry looked at the table. "I can't wrap my mind around him doing that," he said quietly.

"Oh?" the old wizard asked. "It seems entirely in line with the motives you projected for him, and is a far more obvious explanation than anything else I have been able to come up with."

"No, I realize that," Harry agreed. "But... I could have died. Almost did die, in fact, there was this guy who held a gun to my head... I was so sure he wanted me to rule the country, why would he take that risk?"

"Ah," the old wizard nodded. "Perhaps I can shed some light on that point. Do you not remember what he did Monday?"

"Euhm," Harry said, searching his mind in confusion, "which part of it do you mean?"

"The precaution he took," Dumbledore answered. "Remember that after hearing the message, no one could go further back in time than four hours. And I have since been informed that a young Muggleborn student from Beauxbatons, Marielle Dutant, never returned from the Easter Holidays. She had a Time-Turner, so it seems all too clear what is going on." He sighed. "The Time-Turner is locked to her use, of course, so I daresay she still lives. I suspect he has a servant who will test for specific conditions, and then sends the girl back in time with those answers, never knowing whether he executed the plan or not. If he merely chooses not to carry through with the plan if your continued survival cannot be confirmed, the plan is risk-free at least in this regard."

"I see," Harry said slowly. "So if my mother hadn't been there to save my life, the whole attack would never have happened in the first place."

"Correct, I think," the old wizard nodded sadly.

_The solution is simple then,_ Slytherin suggested with a snigger. _Next time you find yourself in one of his dangerous plots, just get killed. If you fully intend to do that, he can't do anything like this anymore._

_I think,_ Ravenclaw pointed out, _that if we do in fact find ourselves in such a situation, we are not actually going to follow through with that plan, no matter how sensible it would be in theory._

"Is there a way to stop him from finding out? Anti-scrying spells?"

"A clever thought," the old wizard answered after a slight pause, the hint of a smile on his lips. "I feel the fool for not seeing it before. Yes: if you are beyond discovery in the six hours following any disaster, it will be impossible to guarantee your survival. Such spells _do_ exist, although Voldemort might possess dark magics which I am unaware of, which could penetrate my best defenses to at least discover _that_ you live, if not _where_. That being said, I suspect not even the darkest rituals known today have a chance against Ignotus Peverell's Cloak of Invisibility, which was deemed impenetrable even in its own age. I will cast my strongest spells on you when we are done here, but I would also urge you to hide under your cloak for six full hours after any disaster that you might have been hurt in."

"I will do so," Harry nodded, although the resolution being taken, it would most likely never be necessary to _actually_ do it.

"With that settled," Dumbledore said after a brief silence. "There is something else I would speak to you about. Have you not wondered what it is that I went to retrieve tonight?"

"Well yeah," Harry shrugged. "But it seemed obvious that you weren't going to tell me, and I figured it might be some dark magical object or something."

The old wizard almost smiled. "Not quite, but you were right that I was deliberately withholding the information from you. Now, however, I believe the time has come to share the secret with you, as my objections were mooted yesterday. The item in question is something which Voldemort would desire above all, a device of ancient lore, which might survive a nuclear explosion, even as the wards protecting it would not. Do I have your word not to speak of what I am about to tell you?"

Harry considered this.

"You have my word not to speak of it unless there is a _really good reason_ to go back on that. I shall be responsible with whatever knowledge you give me."

"I suppose that will have to do." Dumbledore's hand dipped into a pocket of his robes, and retrieved a black stone.

"The Philosopher's Stone. The only one in existence."

Harry's brain ran into a brick wall.

"You see that you are speechless. I suppose you have found out about this device in your many library sessions?"

"Well, yeah..." In their attempts to go through the library in an alphabetical order and at least make an index, he and Hermione _had_ gone through most of the letter A, and therefore had found out about alchemy. And you couldn't read more than 10 lines about alchemy before running into the central goal of the whole thing, the search for the philosopher's stone. Alchemical research had led to the invention of medications against magical diseases, to the discovery of the Animagus Potion and much more, but _most_ alchemists wasted their time trying to create some mythical device that supposedly turned base metals into gold and produced the Elixir of Life, which indefinitely prolonged the youth and health of the user. "I just thought it was obviously false."

"Oh?" Professor Dumbledore smiled briefly, although it didn't reach his eyes. "I shall mention that to Nicolas Flamel when I next visit him. His 665th birthday is next week. Although under the circumstances I suspect there will not be a party."

Had he really, _actually_ read about a _real, existing_ device to gain _immortality_ and just _ignored it_? Harry's stomach gave a little lurch.

"But it makes no sense," he protested. "Why would _one_ device be able to transmute lead to gold _and_ produce an elixir that kept someone young? Those things have nothing to do with each other besides being desirable! That's why I figured that the Philosopher's Stone is supposed to create unlimited gold and eternal life, not because there's a single magical discovery that _actually_ produces both of those effects, but because someone made up a story about a super-device that never existed."

The Headmaster just smiled that sad smile again. "Tell me, Mr. Potter. What originally made gold so valuable?"

"Euhm... I don't know? It's shiny? And I guess it might also be because gold never changes. It's resistant to corrosion, so it always _keeps_ its shi... oh."

"Indeed. There is a connection, you see."

"But if someone actually made one of those, why aren't whole _countries_ kidnapping him to force the secret out of him?"

"Because it is no secret. The method of creating a Philosopher's Stone has been well-known since before the time of Merlin. It's just very, very hard to achieve. There is, however, the problem that the stone itself might be stolen. Nicolas has managed to keep it safe for centuries, but Voldemort poses a real threat, especially since we do not know whether Nicolas's wards can keep out _spirits_."

"So how does it work?" Harry asked. He wasn't about to get distracted with irrelevant concerns like Voldemort while there was an actual immortality device right in front of him. "Does it heal age-related physical issues, like gene loss or accumulated waste?"

"No," Professor Dumbledore said, surprised. "Magic does that. The Elixir or Life, when charged with the right spells, increases the drinker's pool of life force."

Harry frowned, thinking. He'd come across the phrase "life force" a few times in books, most notably when referring to the Patronus Charm, but he had taken it to mean something like physical energy, which matched his exhaustion after letting the True Patronus Charm go out of control. This didn't sound quite like it, though. "Can you elaborate on that, please?"

The old man smiled wryly. "A Ravenclaw as always, I see. Well then, as there is little time for a beginner's course in Healing, let me explain it with a parallel. You know, of course, how getting tired works. You can only expend so much energy at once before your body rebels and needs rest, but after having rested, you are as strong as before. There is a clear limit to your energy: no matter how much you rest, you will not be able to sprint for half an hour on end, although by training your body you can push this limit upwards significantly. Regardless of that training, however, your limit is also subject to natural change with age. Your energy _–_ physical strength _–_ grows stronger at first and weaker after a certain age. So let us say that there is a _pool_, your physical energy, whose shape alters as you age following a standard pattern. You can tap the pool for activities, and its emptiness affects you, but it will simply replenish itself afterwards."

Harry nodded slowly. This was a very mystical way to speak about muscles and blood vessels, but he supposed it was a reasonable way of looking at it if you had no idea of the underlying biological systems.

"As you may have already learned, your so-called _magical core_ works in much the same way," the old man continued. "And just like you have a magical core which grows as you age, plateaus, and then slowly starts degenerating towards the end of your first century, so you have a pool of life force which grows at first and starts declining later in life until it finally dwindles down to nothingness. In a witch or wizard, this process takes longer, as your body's magic prevents and later slows the decline. Even in Squibs _–_ who do possess a magical core, but one which does not grow after birth _–_ this effect is noticeable, although it is generally not enough to add more than a decade or so. The Elixir of Life increases the size of the pool and, used with different charms, also the size of your pool of magic _–_ to a limit."

"I see..." Harry said slowly, considering the Patronus Charm in light of this new information. "What happens when you use up all your life force?"

"You die," Dumbledore said simply. "Life force is needed for your body to keep functioning. It is, however, not easy to use up all your life force, certainly not in the prime of your life. There are spells which burn it, and your body steadily consumes it while you are awake, but the loss of life force usually happens slowly enough that you are rendered unconscious before you can spend the last drops. If you survive such a spending, the pool will simply replenish itself over time. Phoenix tears can speed up that process, although they cannot increase the size of the pool."

"And when you grow old, you have less life force, so you tire more quickly?"

"When there is less life force available, your body gradually adapts to using it less, yes. This means you grow brittle, and become more susceptible to minor illnesses, although your magic will still be able to fight off most illnesses, even at an advanced age. That is why most magic users die peacefully of old age rather than disease, their pool of life force simply fading to be so small that it cannot sustain their bodies' continued functioning any longer."

Harry nodded. "So what does all that have to do with lead turning into gold? The same potion that helps increment a mysterious biological force affects the number of protons and electrons in a collection of atoms?"

The Headmaster smiled. "Gold is more than mere metal, Harry, as is silver. Why do you think it is used as our currency? There is a magical component to certain metals which transfigurations _–_ free or permanent _–_ cannot emulate. Unfortunately I do not know many details, as treaties with the goblins forbid any magical experimentation with the noble metals, but this much is well-known."

Harry filed that away for future notice. Perhaps he should have a good look over the exact formulation of those treaties before trying his gold and silver trick.

"But in short," he summarized. "There _actually is_ a device that grants immortality. _You have it._ You hid it _in Hogwarts_. And you didn't tell me before that such a thing exists. In fact," he added after a thought, "you deliberately hid it from me, talking of _'the thing he wants'_."

The old wizard bowed his head. "Yes, I did. It was not my secret to give away, and aside from that that, I must confess that I feared you. I believe now that I was wrong about that, however." The blue eyes pierced Harry's. "You do not fear Death in the way Dark Wizards do."

"I fully intend to make Death fear _me_," Harry answered.

The Headmaster nodded. "I visited Nicolas on Monday, in the hope that he could learn your spell. He could not, at the time, but he said that he understood the meaning very well. Yesterday, he contacted me again and proclaimed that he had finally succeeded, and that the charm had touched him on some level he hadn't felt in centuries. He also told me that if you had invented this spell, then it would be safe to tell you about the Stone. He added that you might be one of the few people able to make another, although I would personally advise against trying."

"_Why?_ Surely even _wizards_ don't casually overlook the implications of a device that _grants immortality_?"

"It doesn't grant immortality! It merely gives eternal youth. It would not have stopped today's deaths." He sighed deeply, as though he was carrying the burden of the world on his shoulders. "Nor would it save those who succumb to a magical disease. And to answer your question, I would advise against it, because even those who follow the instructions perfectly _–_ which is _extremely_ hard to do, and will take years of intense work _–_ tend to die when casting the final spells to complete the process. Nicolas Flamel is the only known wizard who has ever survived these last steps. There might have been more in the days of Atlantis, as _someone_ must have developed the recipe from which Nicolas worked, but if any survived its fall, Merlin did not know of them."

"But why don't wizards who are on the verge of death try to make one?"

"Because it wouldn't work. The spells require such an extreme investment of both magic and life force, that you can _only_ do it in the prime of your life, when you are likely to still have a century ahead of you. Even then, you must be exceedingly powerful to even have a chance, and be extremely fortunate to boot. I know of hundreds who have tried it, and only one who has succeeded."

"Ah."

From a purely utilitarian point of view it might make sense to take that chance. If there was a 99% chance of dying in the process, and a 1% chance of immortality, then the expected gain from trying was 0.99 * -100 + 0.01 * infinite, so still infinite. Or, if you assumed that the universe would continue to expand and eventually no longer support life, it was about 0.99 * -100 + 0.01 * 10^10, which was still pretty near infinite. You'd probably need some extra precautions to stop dying from other sources, like atomic bombs, gamma rays or other mistakes, but if you could do that, the maths was pretty clear.

_Would I do that?_

It was a painful question, and he didn't know the answer. Sometimes, expected value wasn't the only thing of importance, because that which you _lost_ would weigh much higher than that which you might gain...

It was moot anyway. Harry was probably going to find a better path to immortality long before the time came to make a philosopher's stone.

"I suppose I can see your point," he said, carefully keeping his voice neutral. "But in all fairness, how do you _know_ that this Nicolas is the only one who succeeded? If others had, would you have heard of it? It sounds like there's a strong motive for secrecy, if you have a device that gives infinite life and money and which can be stolen."

"A good point," the old wizard nodded. "But you should not forget that it requires immense magical power to do this, and knowledge of certain spells which are not typically shared lightly. The Interdict of Merlin guarantees that we know of all who might have attempted it, and the deaths of powerful wizards and witches tend to be well-documented."

_Unless someone got the spells from an alchemist and then killed him and made it look like an accident,_ Harry didn't say out loud.

"So why does Nicolas seem to think I have a better chance than others of learning?"

"Because you don't want to avoid dying,;you merely want to keep living."

"Erm... Headmaster, forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but that's exactly the same thing."

"Not quite. How should I put this? I suppose you don't want to die, not because you _fear death_, but because you _enjoy life_. And you think that no matter how long you live, you will continue to enjoy it so much that you'll want to go on doing it."

"Yes. That is a pretty accurate summary."

"And that is where you differ from most of those who seek immortality."

_Doubtful,_ Harry thought. _But perhaps in the magical world, where trying to avoid death is seen as dark, and people don't even _consider_ the possibility that eternal life might be a good and bright thing because it is so internalized as the kind of thing bad people want, it is true._

"So what made Nicolas different?"

Dumbledore shrugged helplessly.

"Nicolas never truly sought immortality for himself. You see, early in life he married a Muggle woman, Perenelle. Despite the difference in status, he loved her his entire life, and desired more than anything to grow old with her. This wish, of course, was not to be. With her not possessing any magic of her own, and having suffered various Muggle illnesses during childhood _–_ illnesses which had left her body weakened and permanently damaged her life force pool _–_ she could never expect to live more than seventy years, even with all the magical healing he could offer."

Harry nodded. He'd wondered about mixed marriages before.

"Fearing the day when she would die before him, Nicolas studied alchemy. His father had left him a sufficient fortune so he would never need to work, which allowed him to focus on his research without ever neglecting his wife. And when Perenelle was old and weakening in age, he performed the final spells. He tells me that the crucial thing was that he wanted to live, forever, _with her_. He did not mind the chance of dying, for without her, life would not be worth living. For what he tells me, the spell resonated with him on some powerful level; he sensed that his motivations mattered. He aged about fifty years in a minute as a large chunk of his life force and magic were ripped out of him, but he survived, and the stone was made."

"Wait." Harry was thinking rapidly. "You can use the stone on _multiple people_? But that changes everything!"

"Let me finish. The stone generates enough Elixir to sustain life and magic for one person at the level of a moderately powerful 40-year-old, with some left to create a modest bit of gold. It was never his intention to use the stone in this way. At first, he gave all the Elixir to Perenelle, which finally healed her life core and returned her youth. He found that he could sustain her with only a bit over half the Elixir. Unfortunately, this did not leave enough for himself, all the more so as he needed to sustain his magic as well as his life. Being now old himself, it seemed that Perenelle, and not he, might end up being the survivor. As you might imagine, however, she would not stand for that."

The old man smiled fondly. "They compromised. Rather than having one of them live forever and the other one die, they chose to simply live a long life together. Perenelle aged as Nicolas grew younger, until they were physically roughly the same age. Thus it was that they learned that it takes less Elixir of Life to sustain an eighty-year old than a forty-year old. They could live together as somewhat elderly people, but in good health and with sufficient energy for a quiet life, while still having some Elixir to spare on preserving Nicolas's magic. Unfortunately, it still wasn't enough, so his magic dwindled over the next century, then plateaued. Even without further sustenance from the stone, his magic did not degenerate beyond that; he is roughly as powerful as an average fifth-year child, now."

"That's still pretty good," Harry observed.

"Yes; it is enough to handle health problems for himself and Perenelle, and to slow the natural loss of life force, which allows him to save up some more of the Elixir. It is certainly sufficient for daily use. However, you must take into account that he was a _very_ powerful wizard before, and most of the greater magics are now well beyond him."

"I see... But he can still _teach_ powerful spells, such as the spells to make the stone."

"Yes." Dumbledore waved his wand. "In fact, when he finds someone he trusts, that person might just learn a lot of spells and alchemical potion recipes almost forgotten these days. After learning your variant of the Patronus spell, he said he would be happy for you to study with him, once you graduate Hogwarts. It might be an offer worth considering."

Harry blinked. "Yes, definitely." Learning some powerful six hundred year old magic lore was an offer not to be sneezed at, and a chance to study the philosopher's stone and learn more about the arts of immortality might be invaluable too. Although the Elixir of life seemed to be more about aging than actual immortality, and wouldn't bring back Mum or any of the others.

Well, actually...

"What exactly happens when we die?" That feeling when his mother had died had not been physical, but it might just have something to do with life force.

If Dumbledore was surprised at the non-sequitur, he didn't show it. "Death is the separation of body, soul, life and magic _–_ although I am not certain whether the soul and the magic separate or stay together; there are theories that these two parts are inextricably tied."

"If a person died from non-magical wounds, can the body be cured _–_ well, brought back to perfect condition _–_ with magic?"

The Headmaster raised an eyebrow. "I suppose it may be possible, although it would be a lot harder than curing a living body. May I ask where you are going with these questions?"

"Well... What happens when you give Elixir of Life to a corpse?"

"Nothing," the old wizard spoke sadly. "Nicolas has tried it, of course, but his efforts were fruitless. Once the soul has moved on, the life force has nothing to latch on to."

_That, or he didn't know about CPR,_ Harry thought. _Or perhaps it worked, but the person immediately died again because the Elixir only increases the size of the life pool, but doesn't fill it. _That_ could be circumvented by having them in the presen_ce _of the True Patronus Charm when they're revived._

Ravenclaw cleared her throat. _Do we even know whether this whole life force explanation is an established medical fact?_ _This_ is _Dumbledore talking._

_We can ask Madam Pomfrey about it?_ Hufflepuff suggested. _We don't need to make all the plans immediately, but this certainly seems like an enormously important avenue to investigate further. Especially after today._

"I don't suppose your friend Nicolas has some Elixir to spare, does he?"

"He does, in fact," the old wizard nodded. "When they found that his magic was no longer changing, Nicolas and Perenelle were quite settled in the life they had lived for a hundred years, and had neither wish nor inclination to have more energy. His vast magical lore and aptitude with potions secured a steady income, which removed the need for any gold, too _–_ and I do believe the goblins at Gringotts give him some very good deals on his banking if he refrains from creating any. As a result, he has been storing the remaining Elixir for well over three hundred years. He makes occasional use of the storage _–_ for example, he has used some of the spare Elixir to heal acquaintances suffering from a damaged life core like Perenelle first did _–_ but mostly he keeps it for experiments, emergency healing, and for the contingency that the stone is stolen or destroyed. I believe he currently has enough saved up to last him and Perenelle for thirty years."

"I can think of some experiments," Harry said pointedly. "When we are done here, you are going back in time to the battle, and then you will cast your anti-decomposition charm on every child in that forest _–_ and McGonagall and Vector too _–_ the instant they die. And then we'll see what a combination of immortality juice, the True Patronus Charm, Muggle doctors and who knows what more together can do."

"There is no point, Harry, their soul has moved on! I understand that you're hurt, but no good will come from pinning your hopes on _–_"

"Just. Do. It."

The old wizard sighed. "I cannot go back in time that far anymore, I have used too many turns already today. But if you insist, I shall ask Alastor Moody to do so once he returns from his current assignment."

He looked at his watch. "We have only ten minutes left before I should return, so let us move on. I brought you here not merely to inform you, but also to seek your advice. With its protections gone, the question that I have feared all year has presented itself: whether the stone ought to be destroyed."

Harry opened his mouth in shock and then shut it again. He stared at the old wizard in complete non-understanding.

"No! Of course not! You don't just throw away immortality, that's... that's..."

The Headmaster held up a hand. "I had expected this response from you, all the more so now that you have a use for the Elixir in mind, futile though I am certain it will prove to be. Yet I ask you to consider the question for a moment, before dismissing the idea altogether. Nicolas and Perenelle themselves say they are prepared to do it, if it will prevent disaster from striking the world _–_ but if disaster is unavoidable, or we can avoid it without destroying the stone, they would rather not resort to that. As it is, without the defenses of Hogwarts, I do not know whether I will be able to protect the stone. The wards in these chambers were crafted by Merlin himself, but they are not as versatile as the Hogwarts wards were. This office was never meant to hide objects beyond retrieval, and besides holding the stone on my person, it is the only option I have left. The consequence of allowing the Philosopher's Stone to remain in existence will likely be that, eventually, Voldemort will take possession of it. If not destroying the stone, what else is there I can do to keep it from him? You know his mind better than any, do you see a way?"

"Why would he want it?" Harry asked logically. "He's already immortal, I thought we established that point."

"He is immortal only in the sense that his soul cannot be forced to move on from this realm either by death or exorcism, not in the sense that he doesn't age! To combat the effects of a degenerating body, his only recourse without the stone is to die and trust his servants to create a new body. There is a ritual that creates a body to perfectly match a spirit's magic, but it requires permanent sacrifice: in order to create the body, a sufficiently large amount of bone from a near ancestor is required, and in order to imbue it with life force both a willing servant and an unwilling enemy must sacrifice half of theirs _–_ in total, life force is said to be lost permanently. This is not a ritual that can be repeated infinitely often, if only because there can only be so many near ancestors whose bone to take."

"What about possession?" Harry asked. "Can't he simply keep taking over other people's bodies?"

"He could, but his magic would be weaker by having to be channeled through another's body. What is more, such a possession cannot last long, as it places a great stress on the body, which needs to hold two souls at once. I believe that this is what we have seen with Quirinius Quirrell, although I did not recognize it for what it was at the time."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "I'm going to pattern-match this talk about souls and ask what happens if a spirit possesses a victim of the Dementor's Kiss."

"A good question," the old wizard nodded. "These bodies are deprived of soul and magic, but retain their life force, and therefore would most likely make perfect targets for possession. This has not come up in recent years, as it has been the practice to destroy the bodies of Dementor victims for centuries, but there are certain old tales which suggest that the method has been deliberately used in the past to create human hulls amenable to possession, as they _'do not fight'_. Even in such cases, though, the possession was said not to have lasted more than two decades, and even without soul-conflicts, possessing a foreign body still weakens the magic. But in the long run, this, at least, is not a problem, as there will be no Dementor-victims past this generation."

"No," Harry agreed with a swallow, thinking back to the many empty-looking yet still living bodies on Monday. "But I bet he's possessing such a body now."

"True," the old wizard spoke. "But above all these things, there is one price that the stone gives, which neither rituals nor possession can offer."

Harry considered. "Magic?"

"Magic," Dumbledore stated. "There are no tales, none at all, of wizards who survived their deaths, yet lived beyond their third century. Voldemort might leave his body behind and craft himself a new one. He might succeed in crafting a _young_ body, if he chooses a servant and enemy both in their primes or youth. However, I have never heard of any spell or ritual that allows part of a magical core to be stolen, or given. It is my suspicion, however _–_ although I confess I am not certain _–_ that there is simply no magic known to man, no matter how horrific, that will stop the degeneration of magic with age. Nothing, besides the Philosopher's Stone."

"What about blood sacrifices, like you said Grindelwald was getting?"

The old man frowned deeply. "Human sacrifice can be used to refill both life and magic cores, and even to overcharge them, but not to alter their size. If not used, the spare magic and life drain away, and while some of the life can be used to retain the magic for longer, the process is very lossy. Grindelwald had people killed by the thousands, which included enough Squibs and occasionally magic users to increase his power beyond challenge, but it would never be sustainable in the long run. Certainly this approach would not suffice to combat the effects of age. Voldemort would want to preserve as much power as he wields now, so that few would have a chance to defeat him. Yet such power can come only by sacrificing wizards or witches, likely three to five each day, or over a hundred Squibs."

"That does _not_ seem unsustainable," Harry explained patiently. "You just kill witches above childbearing age. Crank up the fertility rate a little by giving exemptions to families with sufficiently many magical children, and within a century even the British Isles alone could produce the 1500 or so blood sacrifices each year. And since Squibs can be used, you can even avoid wizarding protests about the system just by getting a group of male Death Eaters to routinely impregnate a warehouse of Muggle women. You said Squib cores simply don't grow, so you can get the full effect by killing them as babies."

Dumbledore was staring at him in wide-eyed horror. Harry sighed.

"This is like sharpening Hufflepuff bones into weapons again, isn't it? Look, I _don't_ think he particularly wants to do that. I'm just saying that if he wants to avoid dying, he has other options. And honestly, if the alternative option is him setting up that kind of system, I'd say _give_ him the stone."

A pained expression crossed the old wizard's face. "You would _choose_ to give Voldemort the means to rise more terrible even than before, to become an immortal dictator, whom none could challenge even two hundred years from now?"

"No," Harry said softly. "I would not. But we don't _know_ what the future will bring. Since you asked my opinion, I would recommend not destroying the Stone. We might still need it, and right now I cannot see its destruction achieving anything other than the deaths of your friends Nicolas and Perenelle."

Dumbledore appeared to consider this, and then nodded his gray head slowly.

"Very well. I shall follow your advice for now."

He stood up.

"And now it is time to get back to the forest of Dean, and protect the children sleeping there."

"That, and send Mad-Eye Moody back in time to protect the bodies."

The former Headmaster grimaced sadly. "Yes, I shall do that too."

Harry nodded. "Excellent. Before you take me back, do you have a convenient place where I may have been sleeping for the past six hours?"


	26. Chapter 106: The Muggle War, Pt 4

**CHAPTER 106: THE MUGGLE WAR, PT 4 **

* * *

_"Mum," the girl said, looking panicked, her robes scorched and sweaty. "I can't talk now, I'm sorry." And then she and the golden bird were suddenly engulfed in a burst of flame and disappeared.  
_

_Roberta stared at the bodies lying in her living room, her heart beating rapidly. She counted eight teenagers; dead, unconscious or just wounded, she wasn't sure. One of them was missing his legs, another – an older girl, by the looks of it – seemed to have broken her spine._

_"Hermione!" she yelled as her daughter appeared with more fire, depositing another bleeding child onto the floor. But Hermione just shook her head and disappeared again._

_Eleven children later, Hermione did not come back immediately. Roberta waited long minutes, her stomach cold with fear but not knowing what to do, among the groaning and crying of the children on the floor. She wondered whether she should get her husband out of bed, or maybe call emergency services, but she didn't dare to move away.  
_

_And then her daughter returned, and collapsed onto the sofa while the bird opened its beak and produced the most wondrous sound Roberta had ever heard._

_She ignored it, almost pouncing onto the sofa. "Hermione! What's going on?"_

_The girl was silent for a moment, her eyes closed, a peaceful expression briefly crossing her face as she took in the bird's song. The creature flew around, now, over the wounded children, water falling from its eyes. Roberta would have thought that the animal was mourning their inevitable deaths, but then she saw that where the tears fell, wounds healed._

_"I'm sorry mum," Hermione spoke at last. "This was just the only safe place I could think of."_

_"Forget about that!" she exclaimed. "What's going on?"_

_"There's a war going on. We were attacked by a large group of Muggles. They had explosives, and I was_ supposed _to get everyone out, but I was wounded, and by the time I came to they had taken down the shield. It__ all happened too quickly. I had to do what I could to get the wounded out."_

_"But your teachers..."_

_"There were hundreds of them! And __–_ and I saw the corpse of Professor Vector, and _–_"  


_Roberta didn't need her daughter to finish. She just took Hermione in her arms and held her, while the child cried and the red-golden bird sang mournfully._

_"I've got to go back," Hermione said eventually, wiping away her tears. "And take the others with me. A phoenix can heal, but broken or missing limbs need a Healer."_

_"Come back afterwards," Roberta pleaded. "Don't return to Hogwarts."_

_"Hogwarts doesn't exist anymore, mum. The Muggle government threw a bomb on it."_

_Roberta was entirely speechless._

_"I can't stay here – it would be too dangerous. What if the neighbors realize what I am? And besides, I'm needed with the others."_

_She should have protested. She probably would have, if she hadn't just seen her daughter save nineteen other children from whatever battle was obviously going on. She'd seen all the news about attacks on and from "wizards", and worried a fair bit, but she hadn't believed it would get _this_ serious._

_Instead, she just asked the question that had been haunting her for most of the week. "You were saving people, weren't you? On Monday? I saw these glimpses of someone who looked like you in the videos. And your father thinks he saw Harry Potter too." She hadn't believed it then – they hadn't heard of Hermione for weeks, supposedly because she was very ill, and there was no earthly reason why she would have been in Iraq – but looking at her daughter now, it seemed all too plausible._

_Hermione just nodded. "Yeah. It's been a pretty heavy week."_

_"There has to be some way we can get you out of this. Children shouldn't be involved in a war."_

_A pained expression crossed her oh-so-young-daughter's face._

_"I completely agree, Mum. Unfortunately, what is and what should be are not the same thing."_

_Twice nineteen flashes of fire later, all the children were gone. Hermione came back one last time to hug her mother, cast something at the floor to clean up the blood, and then she disappeared again._

_Roberta felt her stomach clench. That had felt all too much like farewell._

* * *

Hermione woke up with the soft morning sunlight on her face. She kept her eyes closed for a bit, as she dreaded what she would see. All the events from the last night came back to her in an instant. Her sleep had been peaceful, at least, even if it hadn't been long – that was one of the blessings of a phoenix, that you were at least spared nightmares.

Voices and the smell of porridge penetrated her consciousness. Giving in to the inevitable, she opened her eyes.

It wasn't as bad as she had expected. Sure, the ground and trees were blackened, and many trees had been snapped in the battle, but the mild sunlight that was streaming through the foliage fell only on living children, asleep or just waking like she was. No corpses, crying or shouting. The whole scene was strangely peaceful. She sat up and looked around.

There were faint blue lines connecting all the children, she saw. And further away, people were moving – both children and adults, including quite a few Aurors by the looks of it.

Someone stirred next to her. She looked down and saw Harry, whom she hadn't noticed there yet. When she had finally fallen asleep last night, he hadn't returned from his mission with Professor Dumbledore yet.

"Morning," he murmured groggily.

"Hey Harry," she said. "Do you know what these blue chains are?" He also had a blue line around his wrist, connecting him to Neville. She noticed that there were no lines on _her_ body.

"Sure," Harry nodded, now also sitting up. "Professor Dumbledore cast them when we came back. Everyone is connected in neat little groups of 45. Between you, him and Sally, everyone can be out of here in about thirty seconds."

"Sally? The American witch?" Harry nodded. "Well, it's good that _she_ is helping out, because if they threw another bomb now, I don't think I would know what to do in time."

"I don't think we really need to be afraid of bombs at the moment," Harry shrugged. "When we got back here, I saw Muggle reporters filming the mess. I don't know who got them in, but Burbage even spoke to them briefly – I bet the international news is showing this all over the world as we speak. Pictures of dead children tend not to go over very well with the common people, nor does international pressure go well with the ones in charge, so I don't think either the government or the military is going to be too comfortable throwing any more bombs around. That kind of coverage is also going to take the heart out of any ground offensive, so we should be good for now, at least until Riddle decides to spice things up a little further. Also, even if they do try to throw another bomb, there's Aurors hidden around the forest who would detect a plane and warn us in time to get out."

That was some comfort, at least. "Do you know what they did with..."

Harry pointed in the distance. "They moved the bodies over there, covered by anti-decomposition charms. Dead attackers are a bit further away, and Aurors were portkeying all the live ones to The Hague. It's only really the UK where tensions are this high, after all, and the international court of justice might well consider the deliberate murder of innocent children as crimes against humanity."

Hermione nodded. She didn't really want to think about it any more, for now. "I'm hungry," she mumbled, a bit embarrassed that she could still think about such things.

With a *pop*, a House Elf appeared by her side balancing a pot larger than itself on its head, and a few bowls and spoons in its hands. "Would Mistress Student like some breakfast?" it asked politely.

* * *

Neville stood silently by the row of corpses. _So many._

There wouldn't even be a farewell ceremony, not any time soon. It wasn't safe to stay in this forest any moment longer than necessary. Madam Pomfrey had quietly told him that Professor Dumbledore had arranged for the bodies to be sent to America for safekeeping, so the children and the two teachers could be given a proper funeral after the situation in Britain had calmed down. Meanwhile, the survivors were being evacuated as soon as there was family to pick them up.

_Goodbye,_ Neville thought sadly. Then he turned and trudged back to his grandmother.

"I'm staying here," Harry was saying. "I think I may be needed."

"In the forest, Mr. Potter?"

"Wherever the remaining children are staying. And by the side of Dumbledore – and the order."

"Very well, then. But remember, as a friend of Neville, and James's and Lily's son, you will always be welcome in our house."

"Thank you, Madam Longbottom. I may yet take you up on that. I'll send my Patronus if it's necessary."

The old woman nodded. Then she turned to him. "Come, Neville. Let's go."

"Can I talk to Harry privately for just a moment?" Neville asked meekly.

Madam Longbottom nodded and moved away, and Neville turned to face his general and friend, mustering up his courage for the conversation he'd been running over in his mind for most of the last week. He'd almost decided not to do it, but the hat _had_ offered him Gryffindor, and Harry had helped him see that maybe he could be a little bit like that. With as much calm as he could muster, he spoke: "I know it was you."

* * *

"I know it was you."

Harry froze. "What?"

"You were the one who broke Bellatrix Black out of Azkaban," Neville said simply. There was no anger in his voice, just a calm statement of the facts. "I figured it out when Gran owled me about your trial. I don't think _she_ made the connection, but then, she doesn't know what it means that you're suddenly pals with Lesath Lestrange."

"Neville, I –" Harry began, his voice dry, but he cut off, not knowing how to continue. How could Neville stand there so calmly?

"Don't say it," Neville commanded. "Don't pretend you're sorry, I know you're not." He swallowed, twice, and continued. "I even understand why you did it. That's the worst thing, I actually understand. But that doesn't mean I'm going to just forgive you." He breathed deeply while Harry was frantically trying to think of something, _anything_ he could say that wouldn't be a lie. "I _am_ angry with you. I was thinking of challenging you to a duel, actually, but I've had a few days to think about it, and I don't think it would really accomplish anything."

_I'm sorry_, Harry did not say. _She didn't act of her own will when she hurt your parents. She was insane._ He couldn't say it, because if he so much as acknowledged Neville's accusation, his friend could have him in front of the Wizengamot and sent to jail. Neville would even have _reason_ to do that, now.

The silence between them stretched uncomfortably, a silence which betrayed him almost as much as any confession, but he couldn't lie to Neville, not like this. Eventually, the boy nodded silently to himself.

"I'm still going to kill her. And you can repay a fraction of the debt you owe to my House by not standing in my way."

Harry nodded mutely, then stopped himself. _What am I promising here?_

Neville sighed deeply. "I still consider you my friend, Harry, even if a part of me wants to hurt you a lot. Take care."

With that, he turned away.

* * *

"You know that you are welcome to come with us to Ukraine," Daphne told Hermione. Next to her, the Lady Greengrass nodded prettily. Daphne knew Hermione too well to think that the girl would take her up on that invitation, but her mother had insisted that she offer, and it did make a lot of sense to confirm their friendship before splitting up for who knew how long. "You could meet Astoria, my little sister."

Hermione shook her head. "You know I can't. They need me, or at least they need Xare."

Daphne nodded, then added on a whim: "I won't be anywhere near Muggles, so if you want to talk, or need a place to stay, it's safe to send your Patronus."

"Thank you," Hermione answered with a genuine smile. "I –" but she trailed off as Mad-Eye Moody suddenly Apparated into the forest. Everyone turned.

"Wizards just attacked a Muggle high school!" the pockmarked man shouted loud enough for everyone to hear. "There are no survivors. Get the hell out of here."

Before Daphne could parse what the man had said or its implications, her mother had grabbed her under the armpit and Apparated the two of them away to their ancestral manor.

* * *

Harry stared at the old ex-Auror, his thoughts jumping to conclusions.

This might have been Voldemort, or it might not have been. A _lot_ of children had died today, and their parents might well have taken offense and decided to repay in kind.

_(The blue chains binding everyone glowed and lost their vagueness. Children who had strayed too far from their group were pulled back, and knots in the chains resolved themselves.)_

The wizards who wanted revenge didn't see that the group of Muggles who had hurt their children were a very specific set, not necessarily representative of the lot. They saw it as _us _versus_ them_. And so they had hit a random Muggle school, possibly just because it was closest or easiest for them.

_("Take everyone to the Wizengamot Hall!" Albus Dumbledore shouted.)_

And now, of course, the Muggle media would no longer focus on the innocent wizarding children who had been murdered. They would show the Muggle children, who were nearer and dearer. Any sympathy wizards and witches held in the eyes of the country would disappear for at least 95% of the people.

_(Flashes of fire lit the air all around. Dumbledore, Sally and Hermione were using their phoenixes to the fullest extent.)_

Would the Muggle government take this escalation in stride? Of course not. Assuming they were still functioning, they were likely to be entirely willing to fight a war against the magical beings in their midst, who had caused them so much trouble. When the voices of the people shouted for revenge, they would leap at the opportunity. And the magical government would retaliate, no matter how much Dumbledore tried to stop them.

_(Harry felt himself burning up and was squashed together with the children near him as they arrived in the familiar stone hall.)_

Negotiation had just become near-impossible, that's what had happened. No longer could anyone claim that it was just a few people on either side hurting the others: they had an all-out war on their hands. Tom Riddle finally had them where he wanted them to be.

* * *

Over the course of the morning, the Wizengamot Hall emptied, as children were either picked up by their parents, or delivered by phoenix to safe places where they could more easily be collected. Most of the Muggleborns, for whom going home would be far too dangerous, as well as many of the orphans, were taken in by the parents of their friends. Some of them would hole up in their houses and stay far away from Muggles; many others were planning to leave the country to stay with distant relatives, or simply try their luck somewhere safer.

Some remained. Not all Muggleborns had friends with magical parents, or their friends' parents mistrusted those with Muggle relatives too much to want to take them in. Some families already had too many guests to protect more children effectively. Some pure- or half-bloods lived in Muggle cities, and their parents feared for discovery too much to allow their children to come home now. Harry Potter and Hermione Granger had both stayed willingly to be able to help out if needed.

At last, only twenty-eight children were still in the most ancient Hall.

"What say Beauxbatons and Durmstrang?" Severus asked the Headmaster in a low voice.

"Both have closed," the Headmaster – or rather, _former_ Headmaster – sighed heavily. "It is _unlikely_ that they will be attacked, but the risk seems too great anyway."

Severus nodded. "One cannot blame them for being cautious. I would not have expected the Muggles to start with nuclear weapons even here."

The Headmaster looked around cautiously. There was a silence barrier around them, of course, but someone might still be reading their lips.

"I do not think they did it entirely of their own accord. Legilimency or the Imperius Curse might have been involved."

"You think the Dark Lord _wanted_ this?"

"The attack on Hogwarts, certainly. It is well-placed to lead us into a war with Muggles, and yet keep all the tensions local to Britain."

"And yet, to start by targeting children... that is low even for him. Although I confess that I never noticed any particular humanity in him with regards to that." The Potions Master looked over at the remaining students, some of whom were talking or just sitting silently or playing cards, waiting for whatever would happen next. "I feel responsible for these children. Twelve of them are in my house."

"So many? Your house has few Muggleborns."

"But many orphans, or with parents who reside in Azkaban. And those are the children with whom other Slytherins rarely want to be seen associating."

"Ah yes," the old wizard sighed. "Although I must correct you on one point: their parents are not in Azkaban anymore. All prisoners of Azkaban have been moved there since Monday, pending reforms. The last were taken on Wednesday, fortunately."

Several Snape raised an eyebrow. "Fortunately? Was Azkaban attacked as well, then?"

"Oh yes." The old man smiled grimly. "The building is _quite_ destroyed. It was a marvelous sight to behold, short-lived though the pleasure was. Perhaps I shall share the memory with others who have lost friends and family to Azkaban some day. Although I fear that now is not the best time."

"To get back to the point," the Potions Master pressed, "I believe that the children we have left are few enough that those members of the staff who are still available can well take care of them. Perhaps we can... arrange a house of some kind? An abandoned shop, perhaps?"

"To make a building mysteriously disappear now would be beyond foolish," the ex-Headmaster pointed out. "The Muggles will be on their guard for mysterious occurrences that could be signs of magic. No, I was hoping to occupy an abandoned wizarding dwelling."

"Do we know of any such buildings with proper wards? To be strong enough to withstand Muggle attacks, they will have to be solidly protected, and those kinds of places are typically guarded even beyond the grave of their last owner."

"I was thinking of the ancestral house of the Black family, actually." He checked his watch. "Its last owner still lives, but is in no position to make use of the house. Yet it is a marvelous place. Large enough to hold the students and some members of staff without being _too_ cramped, and guarded both from Muggle eyes and other wizards by ancient wards. I have checked the street outside, and no Muggles in Grimmauld Place seem to have realized the existence of the place."

"You think Sirius Black would grant you access?" He could not keep the anger out of his voice at the mention of the name.

"Why should he not? Oh, I know I have little of good to expect from him." The old wizard sighed wearily. "Even if the face he showed us ten years ago was not all a lie, if there was any good left in him when he went to Azkaban, the Dementors will surely have destroyed it by now. But he has nothing to lose, and everything to gain. I daresay I can find a good bribe."

"Don't you dare offer him his freedom." He had never felt much love for the bully Sirius Black, but it had reached an all-time low some ten years ago. Anything else he might have forgiven the man for – he himself was hardly innocent, after all – but that he knowingly sold out Lily to Lord Voldemort. Even as he had wallowed in guilt and self-reproof for all those years, there had been the one point of comfort to Severus: that Sirius Black was in the Dementors' power, and would stay there until he died.

"I would not dream of it." The blue eyes pierced him. "I might be able to bribe him with as little as some books to pass the time. We must evaluate those things anyway, in the light of the changed situation." He checked his watch. "The visitor hour in Nurmengard starts at one, so I must leave soon. Will you watch over the students, Severus? I have only one spin of my Time-Turner in reserve, so I cannot return immediately." Severus nodded curtly.

"Good. I shall instruct Miss Granger to follow your commands should any further relocation be necessary. Oh, and it may be a good idea to move the children into one of the smaller conference rooms soon. The Wizengamot will reconvene at four. Perhaps we can _finally_ make some progress with the crisis, although I fear that such hope is slim regardless of recent developments."

* * *

It was well past midnight when the ancient wizard came into the room where the twenty-eight remaining children were lying in blue sleeping bags on the floor, and one child was sitting invisibly in a corner. There had not been much opportunity for privacy: the children had spent most of the day dueling and trying out new spells and tricks, courtesy of Professor Flitwick. When they were sent to bed, all were tired enough to fall asleep quickly despite yesterday's trauma. All, of course, except Harry, who wasn't going to fall asleep until roughly 2am. So he had gone to the bathroom and worn his spare invisibility cloak; four hours later he would be able to drop back and go to bed with the others. Just waiting invisibly was _boring_ (he hadn't dared explore too far, as wandering around the Ministry building invisibly by night might just set off some intruder alarms), but it was no worse than lying around in a sleeping bag unable to sleep.

Harry shuffled up to Professor Dumbledore, who nodded to him, and made a slight gesture with his head indicating him to follow.

In the Chief Warlock's office, Harry finally removed his cloak. "So, what's the news?"

"Nothing good," the old wizard sighed. "While there have been no further organized attacks, I fear that it's only a matter of time. Meanwhile, today has seen constant scuffles. The inhabitants of Magical Britain are not taking the murder of their children and the other attacks lying down. There have been several witches and wizards attacking Muggles openly or in secret – or merely going out in the open and thus provoking attacks to which they 'defend' themselves. At the same time, although Muggles have been a _little_ cowed by the images on their television, there are too many of them who are not; several groups of zealots are acting completely independent from their government, with small militias and individuals lashing out at everything that appears to them to be out of the ordinary. The worst victims are not our kind, but their own: Muggles are not very good at discriminating true magic from the merely unusual, and consequently there have been many brutal attacks on defenseless innocents. It is strongly reminiscent of the witch hunts all over again. There _have_ been some hits on real magical dwellings too – many of our kind do not have the skill or fortune to adequately ward their house, or employ only very minimal protection – but mostly the inhabitants have been able to flee in time. There have been some battles too, however. Five witches and wizards have been confirmed dead from such attacks, and many more Muggles. Others have lost all their possessions as they had to leave their houses to be burned or looted."

Harry nodded, taking all this in. "What's the Wizengamot doing?"

"Absolutely nothing," Dumbledore said bitterly. "I have tried, but –" he sighed deeply. "There are still two camps, you see, neither willing to give much ground. There is what we might call my camp, those who feel we should reach out in friendship: pass emergency laws which absolutely forbid any lethal magic used on Muggles, offer Auror protection, work with their army to respond to any violent elements, publicly punish people who deliberately harm Muggles... And then there is Lucius's camp, which is all in favor of taking the admirable efforts of our former Defense Professor just a step further, and conquering the Muggle world. Yesterday's events have shaken up support either way. On the one hand, it appears that at long last our people have come to see the truth behind my warnings that Muggles are far more dangerous than our kind is wont to give them credit for. On the other, gentle emotions towards Muggles are rapidly losing ground, and I have more than once heard the viewpoint that if they are going to be our enemies regardless, we may as well do everything in our power to win. I must confess that there is a point in this, for I see no way to stop Voldemort's divisive tactics, and if the hostility does not end, how can they ever come to trust us? And yet, I dare not go along with Lucius, for I fear greatly for the consequences if our government goes to war."

"So, no resolution then," Harry summarized.

"Indeed not."

"I ask," Harry said sharply. "Because I was _three rooms away_ for most of the afternoon. Learning spells, and being challenged to play such sophisticated games as _Exploding Snap_. I was, in short, completely having my time wasted while people in this country are needlessly dying in a stupid, pointless war. I _tried_ to get into the Wizengamot, but the session was closed and there was no way to get in or even to make a formal request to speak with you or anyone else. I was _this close_ to simply having Hermione transport me to parliament, giving a speech and letting the pieces fall where they may. The only thing that stopped me, in fact, was Hermione absolutely refusing to cooperate if I didn't talk to you first."

The old wizard heaved a sigh. "I _am_ trying to get you invited, Harry, although not directly. I cannot be the one to propose it, for it would tar you with my brush. But does this mean that you have a solution to our current plight, then?"

"I've got a few ideas, although I haven't really had anyone to check them with," Harry shrugged. "For a start, why not ask the goblins to negotiate? They're a neutral party, and I bet they'd like the ability to trade with Muggles, although they might be more than a little shocked once they learn how the financial system works. Whatever wizards are doing will not reflect badly on _them_."

"True," the old wizard said with a frown. "But I do not believe it would help us much."

"They may be able to arrange conversations between Muggle leaders and the more progressive witches and wizards, as long as we can create a good incentive for them. Allow them wands perhaps?"

Dumbledore's eyes opened in wide-eyed shock. "That would _never_ be accepted!"

"Well, perhaps a financial incentive then," Harry shrugged. "I suspect peace is in their interest. Or if the cultural prejudice against goblins is too great, perhaps ask the centaurs, or even House Elves? Muggles have no qualm with the other magical races, and even if these talks wouldn't help us, it would at least help _them_."

The former Headmaster smiled. "Yes indeed. But I suspect the Wizengamot would not accept any of these suggestions."

"Well, for a completely different idea," Harry said. "Keep enforcing the Statute of Secrecy– we cannot stop Muggles from knowing about magic, but we can stop them from seeing it. Have everyone go undercover. Is it at all possible to detect any magic cast on or near Muggles, maybe excepting magic cast by Aurors? That would neatly solve the Riddle-problem, as _no one_ can hurt Muggles without Aurors popping in anymore. That might just make negotiations possible, although you need to hurry up with that before they're going to employ the next few bombs. Speaking of, a dedicated mission to disable the entire nuclear arsenal of the UK would be a _really good idea_ right about now, and normal bombs too for that matter. It shouldn't even be too hard – with Legilimency, you can easily find out where the bombs are stored and what their weak points are, especially if you use Muggleborn Aurors who understand how to act inconspicuously."

"Trust in Muggleborns is exceedingly low at the moment, for obvious reasons," the old wizard spoke sadly. "But those are useful ideas, even if they will need some adaptations to be workable."

"Well, there's plenty more where that came from," Harry said coolly. "Just get me into those meetings, okay? Because I swear, if I have to sit through another day like this, I'm going off on my own no matter how insanely Gryffindor that is."

The old wizard looked weary. "I will do what I can, Harry Potter. But now, let's get you to bed, shall we? There's a lot of work ahead tomorrow."

* * *

The work, as it turned out, was cleaning. The former Headmaster had arranged access to an old family house, which they were all phoenixed into to avoid passing through the Muggle street it was in. The house had been abandoned for seven years, and all kinds of dark creatures and household pests had taken up residence inside it. Doxies, Puffskeins, garden gnomes... Professor Snape gave an impromptu lesson on dealing with Boggarts, and Professor Sprout, who had just been released from St. Mungo's, lectured about the dangers of a particular mold in one of the sitting rooms. The aged House Elf had apparently turned insane and wasn't any help, but Professor Dumbledore did something to keep him away from the students, at least. No other House Elves showed up to assist; Harry suspected that this was a deliberate move to keep the students busy and stop them from wallowing in misery.

"So how much did this end up costing you?" Severus whispered to the ex-Headmaster as they overlooked the students' work.

"Surprisingly little," the old wizard said. "In exchange for hospitality in his house to any I permitted, Sirius asked only for a fair trial."

"_What?_"

"He did not wish to say more at the time, and I didn't press him on it. It seemed like a reasonable thing to ask, however, and it is in my power as Chief Warlock to give, too. As he never received a trial in the first place, we do not need additional evidence to bring his case before the Wizengamot."

"Surely he doesn't think that the Wizengamot will free him?"

"That is extremely unlikely. I expect that he merely has something to say which he wants to be heard, and stored on public record."

The Potions Master nodded, his face tense.

"Severus..." the Headmaster pushed. "Don't think about it too much. We have other things to do."

"Like cleaning?"

"Like making sure the children are fed. I am quite sure they are getting tired of a diet of plain bread with preserves. But we have a kitchen here, and some of the students may be able to cook. As for ingredients..." Suddenly he frowned and took out his mirror (since there were no longer enough Patronuses available to contact people, the DMLE had handed out communication mirrors to anyone who might be important enough to be spoken to on a moment's notice). "Yes, Emmeline, what is it?"

Severus didn't hear the message, as the mirrors were enchanted to only address one person, but he could see the ancient face darken.

"I'll be on my way," Albus said quietly.

"What happened?" he dared ask.

"Several new attacks by Muggle vigilantes," the old wizard sighed. "At least, _probably_ vigilantes, the army may have been involved too, as the attacks seem to have been coordinated and extremely violent. However it may be, get food for the children, Severus. I'm sure Professor Burbage can pass for a Muggle sufficiently well to buy groceries."

And with that, he disappeared again.

* * *

Harry had to admit that there were some advantages to Hermione having learned all her mother's cookbooks by heart. Between Hermione's vast choice of recipes and one of the older students' chopping charms, the entire orphanage (for that was how he thought of the house and the people in it) was fed an absolutely delightful curry.

Professor Dumbledore had been away for most of the morning, and had also not shown up to lunch. Although no one else was formally in charge, Professor Snape had sneered and insulted, and in doing so almost unobtrusively bullied everyone into productive employment. And he had, after minor nagging and when nobody was watching, dispensed pieces of information to Harry and Hermione.

There had been new attacks, apparently. Muggle groups had discovered the locations of an alarmingly large number of wizarding houses. The Aurors were not sure how it had happened, but the theory so far was that some enterprising Muggles had set up a watch to look out for owls. Most wizarding dwellings were not as well-protected as the house at Grimmauld Place was; many were not even hidden. The poorest part of the magical population generally had the least protection, and it was this part that was hit the hardest. Most managed to flee, losing all their worldly goods and ending up homeless and unprotected. Others fought, causing massive Muggle casualties before having to leave anyway. And while a competent wizard could kill Muggles by the tens or even hundreds if necessary, an incompetent one could not, and even the best wizards could be overwhelmed.

Amelia Bones was doing all that she could, but it wasn't enough to stop the bursts of retaliation. Groups of Muggles mysteriously disappeared. Bodies, apparently unharmed, were found in dark alleys. Around lunchtime, a group of masked men and women appeared in the places where wizard houses had been attacked, setting houses on fire and torturing random civilians. Snape said that he didn't think it was organized Death Eater activity; his dark mark had not given any signal, as it would have if the Dark Lord called his servants to him, and the masks did not resemble the ones Death Eaters used to wear. Rather, it seemed that new groups of extremists were forming rapidly.

It wasn't organized warfare; it was rioting. The Muggles _weren't_ just attacking wizards; there was plundering, arsony, knife- and fist-fights. Some people took to the streets to attack places suspected of being involved with magic. Some people merely took to the streets to continue the protests against their government's negligence, which had allowed its citizens to be unaware of the hidden magical world and still did not move against it. Some, especially those with magical relatives or those with hope that magic might bring relief to the ailments of the Muggle world, were counter-protesting, and in several places it had gotten to blows. And quite a few people just used the opportunity to make as much chaos as possible, plunder shops and torch the houses of minority groups. It was mob mentality at its finest. Perhaps in a few days it would wear off, but by that time the Muggle government was sure to have its response ready.

Harry waited. One more day, that was all he was going to give it. If the magical government didn't sort itself out today, he would simply step in, do whatever seemed sensible at the time, and see what would happen if someone actually tried to do the unexpected. It had to be better than doing nothing, and at the very least, it was sure to make Riddle adapt his strategy.

* * *

-o-o-o-o-o-

* * *

**Update Note:** the next chapter will be posted on Saturday (6 December). However, unlike the usual updates, it will be Saturday _night_ (or evening), because as it turns out, this chapter needed a lot more updating than I expected.


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